


Every Day I Write The Book

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Hiatus fic, UST, cameo by Mr Gold, cameos by Ruby Lucas, mention of August W Booth, mention of Graham Humbert - Freeform, mention of Maid Marian, mention of Milah, mention of Neal Cassidy, outlaw queen angst, post-322
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m in the book now."  To say that a lot has happened tonight is something of an understatement, but Emma is determined to make it all fit together on the same page. (Post-322.  The title is stolen from the amazing Elvis Costello and one of the best songs ever written.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~*~

 

_Marian._

That’s all it took. Just one word.  _Two words, actually,_ Emma thinks with faint hysteria.  

_Mama._

Oh, God. 

Later - much later – she will look back and wonder if there was anything she could have done to avoid stepping into one of the most awkward moments of her life.  Right now, though, all she wants to do is stop feeling like the world’s worst person because she saved an innocent woman’s life.  Sadly, there’s not much chance of that, not with Regina glaring at her as though she’s already contemplating her favourite poisoned apple recipe. 

Someone, probably Ruby, turns up the volume of Granny’s tiny radio, and Emma takes advantage of the musical camouflage.  Robin and his wife (what a damned mess this is) have already moved away to a back booth, Roland wrapped in their arms, but she still doesn’t want to entertain the rest of the diner with this particular soap opera.

“Regina, I’m sorry,” she says again, willing the other woman to believe it.  “She refused to tell us her name, so I had no idea that she was -,” her voice falters, because saying it out loud makes it feel that much worse.  _Maid Marian? Seriously?_ “We didn’t know who she was.”

“You’re from the modern world, Miss Swan.” Regina’s dark eyes flash with fury, and Emma fights the urge to take a step backwards.  “You seriously expect me to believe that you didn’t know that you can’t tamper with the past on a _whim_ without serious consequences?”

Emma opens her mouth to protest, then she feels the press of Killian’s hand low on her back, his shoulder against hers as he comes to stand beside her.  “Beg pardon, your Majesty, but it wasn’t as simple as that.”

“Oh, and of course _you’d_ be the most impartial judge of anything Miss Swan does, Captain.”   Regina’s tone is spiteful, her eyes are glittering with angry tears, but Killian’s unruffled expression doesn’t change.

“Perhaps not, but that doesn’t change the fact that that woman was imprisoned in _your_ dungeon.”  He gestures with his hook towards the back booth where Robin and his family are huddled.  “She would have died by _your_ hand if Emma hadn’t freed her.”   Regina’s dark eyes widen, her red mouth trembling, but she says nothing.  “If nothing else, a child once again has his mother, Loxley has a chance to make peace with his past, and you have the joy of knowing that you were not responsible for causing that family’s misery.”  

“You understand nothing.” Regina glares at him, her voice low and hard. “Do you have any idea of what this feels like?  To have someone come back from the dead just when you thought you could finally be happy again?”

Killian’s hand twitches on Emma’s back.  “Actually, yes.” Emma’s heartbeat quickens at the softly spoken words, because he does, of course he does.  _Neal._

“What’s going on?”

Emma’s never been so glad to see her father, but Regina gets in first.  “Your daughter and the handless wonder brought back a little souvenir for me from the Enchanted Forest.”

Irritation flares at the insult directed at Killian, but Emma shakes it off (he’s a big boy and there will be time for her to be offended on his behalf later), putting her hand on her father’s arm and dropping her voice to an almost whisper. “The woman who was in the cell next to me in Regina’s dungeon?  Well, she’s Robin’s wife.”

Startled, David looks at Emma, then at Robin and his family, then at Regina.  “Oh.”

“Yes. _Oh.”_ Regina sucks in a sharp breath. “You know, I think I’ve had enough of this little celebration.”  Her gaze finds Henry (he’s been glued to Snow’s side for hours now), and her brittle expression softens ever so slightly.  “Miss Swan,” she says carefully, without meeting Emma’s gaze. “I think it might be a good idea for Henry to spend some time at his real home this weekend, don’t you?”

Resentment burns at the back of Emma’s throat. This smacks of emotional blackmail, something at which Regina has always excelled, and yet how can she refuse?  No matter whose fault it is, Regina’s just had the rug pulled out from under her, and if having Henry with her for a few days is a balm for her anger, then maybe it’s a good idea.

On one condition.

Clearing her throat, Emma finds her voice.  “No problem, as long as that’s what _Henry_ wants to do.”

Regina finally looks at her then, and again Emma has to fight the urge to take a step backwards.  There is a quiet fury in those dark eyes, and Emma is suddenly reminded of her first glimpse of the Evil Queen in the past, terrorising an entire village into doing her bidding. “I’ll ask him then, shall I?”  She takes a step towards the booth where Snow and Henry are sitting, then turns back to study Emma and Killian in turn.  “How nice to see that you two have settled your differences.”  She gives them both a smile that sends a shiver trickling down Emma’s spine.  “I can only assume he’s told you everything that happened to him while you were in New York playing house with my sister’s trained pet?”

With that, she leaves them, and it’s no less devastating an exit than if she were dressed in her full Evil Queen outfit, because there’s a tiny kernel of frozen dread sitting in the pit of Emma’s stomach now, and she hates that Regina always knows exactly the wrong thing to say.  For the next few minutes, she and Killian simply watch in silence as Regina talks to Henry.  A new tension has settled over them, Regina’s words burning the air between them and no privacy in which to talk about them. 

 _Damn her_. 

Both to her relief and her disappointment, Henry is more than happy to spend some time in his old bedroom.  He crosses the diner to say goodbye and, after a hug for Emma and a handshake for Killian (despite everything, Emma can’t help smiling at the surprised delight he takes in Henry wanting to shake his hand), gives them both a huge grin.  “Are we going out sailing again soon?” 

Killian returns the grin.  “I guarantee it, lad.”

Henry is literally bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation, and Emma’s heart swells with gratitude.  She’d come so close to never seeing him again. “And maybe my mom could come this time, too?”

“That depends.” Killian raises a dark eyebrow at her son.  “Which mother did you have in mind?”

Henry cackles, as though he’s just heard the best joke in the world, then rolls his eyes in Emma’s direction.  “Which one do you think?  _Duh._ ”

With that, he’s gone, walking at Regina’s side, Regina whose back is ramrod straight as she stalks from the diner.  Emma darts a glance at the back booth as they leave, and discovers that she’s not the only one watching them go.  Marian is entranced by Roland, but Robin is staring after Regina with so much longing and regret in his eyes that it’s almost painful to see.

“Crap.” Emma lets out a heavy sigh. “This is such a mess.”

Killian’s hand is on her shoulder now, and she feels a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Don’t blame yourself, love.”

She shoots him an incredulous glance.  “I can’t think of anyone else who might be responsible for Robin’s wife suddenly being in Storybrooke, can you?” 

He shrugs, his gaze locking with hers, his hand dropping down to his side.  “I could have tried harder to stop you, you know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

A faint flush touches his cheekbones, his gaze dropping as he awkwardly scratches behind his right ear (it’s such an obvious tell, she thinks, and makes a mental note to challenge him to a poker match as soon as possible).  Finally, he lifts his eyes to hers once more, a soft, almost wistful smile curving his lips. “It’s not my place to order you about, Swan.” 

Her throat tightens, choking off the words that are bubbling up inside her.  An hour ago, she was kissing him (and he was kissing her right back) in a cold, candlelit courtyard, and everything had seemed very simple.  She’s made her choice - it was always him, she knows that now – but she also knows there’s a lot of talking that needs to be done.  “Do you still have a room upstairs?”

He blinks, looking more than a little shocked, and she belatedly realises what her question might imply.  Not that she’d have a problem with that - her knees are still knocking from those kisses - but she still rushes to elaborate, because she is so done with the crossed wires between them.  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay for the night,” she says, feeling a blush creeping up the back of her neck.  “I think I should go back to the loft tonight with my parents and -” _God, her baby brother’s name is going to take some getting used to,_ she thinks, and a tiny flash of resentment ripples through her, because it’s just another awkward thing between them.

“And Neal,” Killian supplies helpfully, amusement dancing in his bright eyes, and she smiles at him.

“And baby Neal, yes.”  She sways closer to him, the subtle warmth of his body calling to hers in a way she knows she’ll never be able to put into words.  “I came so close to losing them, I just think I should spend some time-”

His hand catches hers, his smile growing as he tangles their fingers together.  “You don’t have to make excuses to me, Swan.”  He lifts her hand to his mouth, his lips brushing her knuckles in a kiss that sends a hum of pleasure burning underneath her skin. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

Painfully aware they’re there still standing in the middle of the brightly lit diner and that her parents are only a few feet away, she licks her lips (God, she can still taste him) and squeezes his hand.  His eyes darken, his thumb circling her palm in a slow, deliberate caress that manages to make itself felt in places that have no business feeling such things in the middle of a brightly lit diner with her parents only a few feet away.  “Maybe I could walk you to your room before I go?”

Mischief glows in his eyes, the tip of his tongue toying with his bottom lip.  “If the lady insists.”

Two minutes later, after he’s said his farewells to her parents (she makes a point of reassuring them she’ll be right back) they’re in the darkened hallway outside his room.  Her back is against the wall, her hands buried deep in his hair, and he is kissing her as though he’s still afraid she will suddenly fade from existence.  It’s not enough, though, and she tightens her grip on his tousled hair and sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, breathless with the need to give him a little shove in the right direction.  He’s a quick study (as he is with everything, it seems), and in a heartbeat his kiss changes, becoming harder, fiercer, his hand sliding down to grab a handful of her ass as he pushes her back against the chintzy wallpapered wall.  The tenderness is still there, but now there’s hunger too, burning like a mad thing, scorching her skin and hollowing out her insides and making her arch against him, wanting to feel him, wanting to _finally_ feel just how badly he wants her.

He doesn’t disappoint her. 

He breathes her name against her cheek, his hand sliding down the back of her thigh, fingertips digging into her flesh as he rocks his hips against hers, the heavy ridge of his erection pressing hard against the zipper of her jeans. “God, we can’t do this now-” She bites out the words before kissing him again, hard and a little desperate, because she’s started something they can’t finish, not tonight, and she’s just made things a hundred times worse and better at the same time.

They’re both breathless and panting by the time he finally draws back, his hand and hook firmly on her hips, pressing her back against the wall as he eases his body away from hers.  “Emma, love-” he begins, his voice rough with the same longing that’s making her vision blur around the edges, his smile unsteady in the best possible way. “I need to let you go home and get some rest now.”

She knows he’s trying to make it easier for her to keep her promise to rejoin her parents, but it’s not really working. She grips the lapels of his jacket tightly, her knuckles turning white as they sway together, and déjà vu washes over her, but only for a few seconds, because her next words are ones she would have never let herself utter in Neverland. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Nor do I wish to see you go, love.” He lifts his hand to her hair, gently sweeping it back from her shoulder, his fingertips brushing against the nape of her neck. “But we can start afresh tomorrow.”  The corners of his mouth lift with a quick smile. “With clearer heads, perhaps.”

She swallows hard. He’s still touching her, and it’s not helping her find the strength to leave, despite their brave words. “Is that a promise?”

His eyes soften, his answer little more than a whisper. “Aye.”

She leans back against the wall behind her, all her good intentions to stop touching him going out the window as she wraps her fingers around his necklace charms, letting her knuckles graze the skin bared by the open neckline of his shirt. “Well, you _are_ a man of your word.”

It’s his turn to swallow hard, and he covers her wandering hand with his, holding it still. “I’m glad you’ve finally noticed, love.”

Another sense of déjà vu washes over her, but this time it’s the sudden sense of being with the Hook of the past, all her inhibitions dissolving in heated flirtation and the chance to finally, finally give into temptation.  She leans forward, letting her breasts press softly against his chest, trapping their entwined hands between their bodies. “I’ve finally noticed a lot of things.”

A shudder goes through him at that, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Emma, I must speak of something.” He gives her a gentle smile, and the illusion fades.  He’s not that man anymore, not when it comes to matters of the heart. “As much as I hate to admit it, the Queen was right in one respect.” His hand tightens around hers. “There is still much we need to discuss.”

That ridiculous frozen kernel of dread, left behind by Regina’s taunting words, twitches in her chest, sending her rushing towards her usual denial, only now it’s in his favour. “Nothing is going to change how I feel about you.”

“Humour me.”  Just as he did downstairs, he lifts her hand to his mouth. “Let me tell you all my sordid swashbuckling tales before you give me the honour of your presence in my bedchamber.”  He kisses her palm and her knees (and everywhere else) quiver, because who the hell talks like this?  His honourable protestations simply make her want to drag him into the damned bedchamber and rip that stupid shirt and vest right off him.  “In the interests of full disclosure.”

She laughs softly at his perfect use of the modern phrase - she can’t help it - and he gives her that mildly affronted glance she already knows so well. “Sorry, it’s just that – well, you’re a sponge, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

Happiness, pure and raw, bubbles up inside her. “You absorb new information faster than anyone else I know.”

“I’m a fast learner, love.”  With that, he releases her hand, and takes a deliberate step towards the door of his room. “I’ll see you in the morning?” 

She dimples at him, and revels in his answering smile. “You can buy me breakfast.”

He taps two fingers against his chin, as if deep in thought. “Granny _does_ seem to enjoy my gold coins.”

“Goodnight, Killian.” She loves the sound of his name on her tongue.  Judging the way his eyes light up, he loves hearing it just as much. 

“Goodnight, Swan.”

She stares at his closed door for a few seconds, then turns on her heel and heads for the stairs, feeling twitchy and restless and not the least bit noble.  Being a sensible adult really does suck sometimes.

~*~

Resting her chin on her folded arms, Emma slumps at her mother’s kitchen counter, comfortable in a way that only seems to happen in this loft. “If only I’d known who she was.”

Mary Margaret smiles at her.  David is putting the baby to bed, a process that can take a while (apparently he keeps getting distracted by tiny fingers and toes and breaking into new lullabies) and she’s finally alone with her mother.  “Would that have made a difference?”

Emma sighs, because she’s been asking herself the very same question and kept coming up with the same answer.  “No.  I would have still helped her escape and brought her back.” 

“Because that’s who you are, Emma.” Pride shines in her mother’s green eyes.  “And you know something? I would have done exactly the same thing.”

Emma feels a weight lifting off her shoulders.  She’s almost thirty, and her mother’s approval shouldn’t mean the difference between light and dark but it does, and she’s so, so glad for the existence of dark fairy dust.  She reaches for the steaming mug of hot chocolate Mary Margaret has just put in front of her (yet another thing that makes her feel like a child all over again).  “Killian was right, though.” She glances at her mother over the top of her china mug.  “Marian was supposed to die in the Enchanted Forest and now I’ve changed everything.  Not only that, I’ve changed things for Regina.”

Her mother’s hand is soft and warm on hers.  “And an innocent woman, someone who was prepared to die rather than give _me_ up to the Evil Queen, is alive and reunited with her family.”

Emma takes a swallow of hot chocolate, wishing the sweet burn could take away the restless anxiety that keeps prickling at the back of her throat.  “I know.  Believe me, I know, but it’s _Regina._ ”   Her eyes meet Mary Margaret’s, and she knows her mother understands everything she’s not saying.  “I don’t want things to go back to the way they were when I first came here.”  She tries to smile, but her mouth doesn’t seem to want to behave.  “Not when Henry is so happy to have both of us in his life.”

“You don’t know Regina like I do.”  Her mother plunges a spoon into her own hot chocolate, sneaking a mouthful of cinnamon dusted cream.  “She just might surprise you.”

“Or turn me into a toad.”

“Who’s turning who into a toad?”  Her father has finally rejoined them, and Emma pushes the third hot chocolate down the counter towards him. 

“Regina is very angry with me.”

He reaches for his mug. “Well, that’s understandable.”

Emma and her mother react at the same time.  “What?”

David quickly gives Emma’s shoulders a reassuring pat.  “Not to play the devil’s advocate here-”

“Except you totally are,” Emma mutters, and he gives her a smile.

“I didn’t mean that she’s right to be angry with you, just that I understand why she is.”

Her mother is staring at him as though she’s never seen him before, and Emma is gratified by the knowledge that she’s not alone in thinking that David is talking out of his ass.  “I didn’t realise you were such a big Regina fan.”

David raises both hands in mock surrender.  “I’m just saying that if Snow had been a widow when I’d met and fallen in love with her, and then all of a sudden I had to contend with the fact that her husband was back from the dead, I’d be a little angry with the person who made that happen.”

Mary Margaret bites her lip, then glances at Emma, concern creasing her forehead.  “When you put it like that-”

Emma buries her nose in her mug, not caring if she ends up with a face full of whipped cream.  “You see?  I’m definitely going to end up as a toad.”   Resting her chin in her hand, she glances around the room that has been her home for the last few months.  Everything is so familiar, nothing here has changed despite her and Killian’s trip into the past.  Nothing except Henry’s storybook, that is.  God, she’s in the book now, Killian too, and it suddenly occurs to her that she still hasn’t read the new story that appeared as if by - well, magic – to accompany the picture of them dancing at King Midas’ ball.  “Um, did Henry take his book to Regina’s?” 

David shakes his head.  “She bundled him out of there pretty fast.”  He gestures towards the wooden table behind them.  “I picked it up and brought it home.”   Ducking his head, he grins at her.  Her mother is smiling at her, too. “Why, do you want to read about the adventures of Princess Leia?”

She’s too tired to fob them off with a white lie. “Actually, yeah.”  

“Speaking of which, does your dance partner share your concerns about being turned into a toad?”

Emma rolls her eyes cheerfully as her mother chuckles beside her.  “You know him.  He just rolls with the punches.”  She gives her father a pointed glance.  “Sometimes literally.”

David has the good grace to look sheepish. “Well, he really was asking for it at the time.”  He taps his fingers against the side of his mug.  “I think we’re even now.  I dropped off a bag of stuff for him a few days ago.” 

Emma’s curiosity spikes.  This is the first she’s heard of David visiting Killian, but then the last few days have been a little busy. “What did you give him?” 

“Just some clothes.  Toiletries. You know, ordinary guy stuff.”  David frowns. “I had to twist his arm pretty hard to take it, though. He kept talking about not wanting to accept charity.”

An odd wave of emotion twists through Emma’s heart.  “That was very nice of you,” she tells her father, and means it.

“Yeah, well.”  Her father shrugs.  “It’s hard, suddenly finding yourself in a different realm.”  He gives her a stern look. “It doesn’t make us best buddies or anything.” 

Emma grins at him. “I heard you and a certain Prince Charles got on like a house on fire back in the day.”

“Sonofa-”  David rubs his palm over his stubbled chin.  “You know, I keep forgetting that was Hook.”  He looks as though he’s trying to decide whether to be pissed or amused.  “I pretty much told him that Snow and I would be crazy not to approve of him.”

Her mother’s face is a picture of puzzlement as she puts down her empty mug and looks at them both in turn.  “Approve of him for what?”

Emma bites her bottom lip as her father bestows a look of mild disbelief on his wife.  “Come on, Snow. Really?”

Her mother blinks, then looks at Emma, her eyes widening with realisation. “Oh. _Oh!”_ She seems to scramble for her next words, and Emma waits patiently, because this discussion needs to happen and she needs to let her mother find her own way.  “You and Hook?” Flustered, her mother tries again. “I mean, Killian?” 

Emma gives her a quick smile, and reminds herself that her mother only wants what’s best for her.  “He makes me happy.”   Reaching out, she covers the other woman’s hand with her own.  “He makes me feel good about myself, and that’s something I’ve been trying to find for a long time.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is a melancholy one.  “But I thought Neal-”

Emma squeezes her mother’s hand, swallowing down the tight knot in her throat.  There’s no point rehashing ancient history, especially not tonight, with her mother was so happy over their choice of name for her new brother.  “I had to make a choice, and I chose to live in the here and now.”  The irony of using Killian’s words isn’t lost on her.   “Killian’s a good man.”

Her mother’s expression softens.  “I know.” 

Henry’s book is suddenly pushed in front of her, and she looks up to find her father smiling at her.  Intent on her conversation with Mary Margaret, she hadn’t noticed him leave the kitchen.  “If that’s how things stand, you might want to actually read Princess Leia’s story.”

Her heartbeat stutters, then picks up speed.  “Why?”

David smiles.  “Just trust me.”

Her fingers feeling beyond clumsy, she flips through Henry’s book until she finds the new pages, her stomach flipping over anew as she catches sight of the picture, because Killian is smiling at her in a way that no man has ever smiled at her before.  Even more importantly, she’s smiling back at him in just the same way, and it’s suddenly all too much and she hasn’t even gotten to the words yet.  Turning her gaze to the flowery script on the opposite page, she holds her breath as she reads, her pulse accelerating with every new word.

_Brave._

_Adventure._

_Loyal._

_Devotion._

_True._

_Love._

She slams the book shut, feeling absurdly as if she’s been caught peering into someone else’s life.  “I gotta go.”

Her parents’ faces wear identical expressions of disappointment.  “Now?”  Her mother looks at the clock on the wall.  “It’s after midnight.”

“It’s freezing out,” is her father’s contribution, but there’s no spirit in his protest, and she knows he understands both where she’s going and why.

Sliding off the high stool, she pulls the heavy book towards her.  “I’ll be fine.”   Giving them both a hasty kiss on the cheek in turn, she strides across the loft to start piling on layers of clothing.  “And you two need to get some sleep while you can.”

Neither of them can argue with that, and Emma hides her triumphant smile. Anyone would think she’d been arguing with her parents for a lifetime instead of a few months.  It helps that she’s motivated, of course, and right now nothing short of Zelena’s reappearance is going to stop her from driving to Granny’s, because she’s already wasted enough time pretending not to see what was right in front of her.

 

~*~

 

It’s the coldest night in Storybrooke she can remember since she arrived here, and that’s saying something.  She remembers some days when she wore so many layers she felt like the Michelin Man, and still she’d shivered.  Making a mental note to talk to David about getting snow tyres for her car, she drives carefully to Granny’s, huffing her way from the bug to the side entrance, every exhaled breath white and soft in the frigid night air.

Once she’s outside his bedroom door, however, she hesitates.  What the hell is she doing?  It’s the middle of the night, and she’s tired and more than likely to say a whole heap of stuff she’ll regret in the morning.  Then she remembers the heavy book in her arms and her resolve strengthens.  She is doing this.

Or maybe not.

She dithers for another few minutes, completely forgetting about the creaking floorboards and a ship captain’s habit of sleeping light. As she lifts her hand to knock, the door swings open.  Killian’s hair is tousled, his feet are bare, and he’s only wearing a pair of black sweatpants she vaguely recognises as a pair that used to belong to David.  He blinks at her, his eyes obviously trying to adjust to the darkness, and she sees the gleam of metal as his hook catches the door and holds it steady.  “Swan?”

‘Uh, hey.” She stares at him, her carefully prepared speech deserting her because he’s not wearing a shirt and she was _not_ expecting that.  Come to think of it, she’s not sure _what_ she was expecting.  It’s after midnight and who the hell knows what pirates wear to bed?  Surely they wear something in case of midnight capsizing emergencies?  It’s possible she’s overthinking things.  It’s also possible she’s trying to look everywhere but at his bare chest and shoulders and failing spectacularly.  She clutches Henry’s book a little closer to her own chest. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“It matters not.” He leans out into the hallway, his gaze scanning behind her as if worried she’s being pursued.  “Is something wrong?”

“No.”  She gives him a sheepish smile, her tongue suddenly feeling clumsy and too thick for her words.  “You said we needed to talk?”

To his credit, he doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Aye, I did.”

“Then let’s talk.”

He looks down at his state of undress, then back at her, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe with an intensity that makes her mouth go dry. “Are you sure that’s wise, lass?”

“Not really.” She’s pretty sure it’s not.  He’s beyond beautiful and in love with her and he’s spent the last few weeks risking his life for her and the people she loves.  Also, he’s hardly wearing any clothes. None of that’s going to stop her, though, because she wants to both talk to him and kiss him senseless, and neither can wait until the morning, because if the last few days have taught her anything, it’s that you can’t take anything or anyone for granted.  “But I’m here now, so are you going to let me in, or do I have to go back to my own bed and lay awake thinking about you until the sun comes up?”

It’s the cheesiest thing she’s ever said out loud in her life, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the least. His eyes widen for a heartbeat, then a slow smile curves his lips. “Well, if you put it that way,” he steps back, gesturing her into the room with a flourish, “I’m at your disposal.”

 _I’m counting on it,_ she thinks.  Hugging Henry’s book a little closer, she steps through the doorway.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killian bumps into a not so Merry Man before being paid a late night visit by the Saviour.

~*~

 

 _I’m always a gentleman_.

Exhaling a rattling breath, Killian Jones leans against the closed door of his rented room and listens to the sound of Emma Swan walking away, and never have his past words rung quite so mockingly in his thoughts. 

Bloody buggering good form, indeed.

He closes his eyes.  Perhaps it’s for the best that they have parted company, at least for tonight, he tells himself. Beneath the exhilaration of his new intimacy with Emma, he is exhausted, wearied to the bone, gritty-eyed and footsore.  He’s dreamed so very long of being with her, pleasuring her, laying his heart at her feet.  If she does indeed plan to honour him with her presence in his bedchamber now that they have reached a new understanding, he intends to be fully rested.

It’s a noble resolve, but it doesn’t stop him wanting her with the ferocity of the fiercest sun. 

He touches his fingertips to his lips, still incredulous at this evening’s turn of events.  He’d given her privacy to reunite with her family, knowing how wretched she’d felt at the loss (however temporary) of her mother, but she’d come in search of him.  She’d sought him out, speaking to him with soft words and gazing at him with soft eyes.  She’d told him he was a hero and thanked him, calling him by his true name, then finally asked the question he’d been both dreading and eagerly awaiting.  Finally, the secret that had been burning a hole in his heart had been hers to do with as she’d wished, and his gut had tightened as the realisation of what he’d done dawned in her eyes. 

_You traded your ship for me?_

There were so many things he’d wanted to say to her then.  Beg her, perhaps, to understand that he hadn’t done so with an eye to make her beholden to him, that he would have been happy for her to never learn what he’d given up in exchange for the chance to help her reclaim her true identity.  That he would do it all again if it meant she was happy.  That he would give up everything he had if it meant she was safe.

Not one of those words had come, though.  The time for jokes and japes had long passed, and he’d seen the craving for the simple truth burning in her eyes, those eyes that always seemed to see into the very heart of him.

And so he’d given her the plain truth.

She hadn’t said a word.  Instead she’d simply kissed him, a kiss that was soft and sweet and filled with all the words that have long lain dormant between them, and his world had tilted on its axis, his horizons tilted and resettling into a brave new world where Emma Swan gave him reason to hope for a happy ending. 

A hero’s journey, indeed.

When her fingers had tenderly stroked the nape of his neck and tangled in his hair, he’d felt as though he could fly.  When she’d pulled back and smiled at him, her eyes shining with the same joyous disbelief coursing through his own veins, he’d knew his feet would never touch the ground again.  He’d kissed her again, his hand tangling in her bright tumble of hair, drinking in the sweet heat of her mouth, painfully aware that she’d shifted closer, letting her knee slip between his.  He’d held her close many a time during their recent adventure - many variations on the complicated dance that has always been their lot to negotiate – but this had been something quite different.  This had been simply a man and a woman finding pleasure in each other, and the erotic simplicity of the slow, lazy kisses had stolen his breath and his voice.

_Finally, finally, she pulls back, her left hand splayed wide on his chest, the other resting on his knee. “We should go in.”  Her voice is faintly unsteady, a perfect match for his hammering heart. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”_

_“I suspect they’ll both assume and fear the worst as to where we are, Swan.”  He rubs his thumb along the delicate curve of her jaw, then the soft swell of her bottom lip.  “At least, I suspect your father will.”_

_“He does actually like you, you know.”  She laughs softly, turning her head to catch his thumb between her white teeth, making his gut clench with a hot, aching twist of need.  “Despite the occasional punch in the face.”_

_He smiles. “He certainly liked Prince Charles.”_

_Her answering chuckle warms his blood.  “And you’re never going to let him forget it, are you?”_

_“You know me, Swan.”  He stands, loathe to disturb the sense of private intimacy that’s settled upon them, but knowing it’s the proper thing to do.  “I’m not a man to ignore an opportunity when it’s handed to me on a silver platter.”_

_She takes the hand he’s offering her, tangling her fingers with his as she rises to her feet, coming to stand toe to toe and almost nose to nose with him.  “Especially by a prince, right?”_

_She’s teasing, he knows that, but he can’t stop the words from coming. “He’s your father, Swan, and he loves you.”  Releasing her hand, he lifts his own to toy with the silky strands of golden hair tumbling over her shoulders.  “I’ll take any opportunity to impress the man.”_

_Her gaze is locked with his, but she doesn’t seem to be searching for the truth of his words in his eyes. “I think it’s more my mother we’ll have to work on,” she murmurs lightly, and he’s still processing the larger picture her teasing words entail as she sways on her feet towards him, the exertion of the last several hours seeming to catch up with her all in an instant.  His knuckles inadvertently brush against the curve of her breast (he hasn’t been able to stop himself from touching the soft fall of her hair) and a flash of heat shoots up the back of his neck.  He’s never touched her thus, only in his dreams, but she merely gives him a tremulous smile.  “We should get inside before someone comes looking for us.”_

_They kiss one last time, his hand sliding down her back to rest low above the tempting swell of her arse, and he feels her tremble against him, the brush of her thighs against his more arousing than any of the bare-arsed rolls in the sheets he’s seen fit to enjoy in the past.  He lifts his head, his senses swimming with the taste and scent of her, and eases himself away slightly.  “Perhaps a celebratory drink_ is _in order,” he mutters, and she taps his chest with the back of her hand in a gentle rebuke, and he grins. “Still a pirate, love,” and her eyes light up._

 _“I’m counting on it,” she shoots back, the intent gleaming in her eyes enough to make him stumble on the cobblestones as he follows her to the front entrance of the diner. He thinks of the way she’d kissed him - the past him, the man he used to be – on the Jolly Roger, and his pulse quickens, a maelstrom of emotions tightening his chest._ Befuddled by a slip of a girl (woman) at every turn until he’s all at sea, _he thinks, and he’s never been happier to have been outmanoeuvred in his life._

Of course, once they’d rejoined the others (and resumed their babysitting duties of Regina’s erstwhile prisoner), it had all come asunder.  The woman had been revealed to be Loxley’s presumed dead wife and mother of his child, and Killian’s heart had sunk at the realisation that he and Emma had been responsible for invoking the Queen’s cold, dark fury.  Before his very eyes, he’d seen the fight go out of Emma, her shoulders slumping as she took on the blame Regina was all too quick to pile upon her, and he had not been able to hold his tongue.

 _What a mess,_ Emma had said, and she’d been quite right. The thought of Loxley knowing that he’d been wooing (and more, surely) the woman who’d had his wife put to death was enough to make Killian wince in sympathy, especially after seeing the beseeching look that the man had given Regina as she’d left the celebrations early.  Loxley had given his heart to the Queen, and now its original owner had come to reclaim what was once hers. It’s enough to make his own life feel relatively uncomplicated, at least for the moment.

He moves slowly about his room, cataloguing the aches and pains that gradually make themselves felt.  Emma’s absence is a hollow ache, scratching at his very bones, but he’s a practical man, and he will make the best of his solitude.  He’s eaten and drunk his fill this evening, now he intends to spend the next few hours sleeping like the dead.  Actually, he thinks as he shrugs off his coat and tosses it onto the bed, now he needs to bathe, because he feels as though he is carrying the grime of not one but two realms. 

Sinking down onto the bed, he pulls off his boots, then his woollen socks.  As he absentmindedly removes his rings and places them on the nightstand, his gaze falls upon the black bag (it’s called a gym bag, apparently, although that stirs his curiosity even further) that the Prince had forced upon him a few days earlier.  He’d thought it strange at the time, perhaps even a little insulting, but tonight he looks at it with new eyes, remembering his dealings with Emma’s future father in the guise of Prince Charles, and is grateful for it.  The Prince is fiercely protective of his family, and if a few items of clothing and strangely scented lotions can possibly be seen as a sign of approval, then Killian is bloody well going to take it.

He chooses a hot bath over the practice known as showering in this realm. While he’s long come to terms with the modern contraption that Granny’s communal bathrooms provides (and appreciated it greatly), tonight the lure of soaking in steaming hot water is too much to resist.  Such a luxury was hard to come by in his former life, and while he’s quite sure he’d enjoy it tenfold were Emma still with him, he’s quick to embrace the opportunity to soak his weary limbs.

The hot water is perhaps too soothing.  He falls asleep in the tub, waking with a start and a splash and a faintly panicked sense of disorientation.  “Bloody hell,” he mutters, swiping his hand across his wet face.  There’s no clock in the bathrooms, of course, so he has no idea of how long he’s been in here, but the water is tepid now, and he suspects he’s running the risk of another lodger complaining to the landlord about his lengthy stay.  Thinking longingly of his bed (he can’t help wishing he wasn’t heading for it alone, but that’s the lay of the land this evening) he dries himself quickly and redresses in his usual trousers and shirt, intending to make use of the Prince’s cast-offs when he prepares for sleep. On his way back to his room, however, he runs into a familiar face in the corridor, and greets him politely.

“You and your family are lodging here this evening?”

Robin of Loxley nods, his expression unreadable.  “It seemed the best solution to a rather unique situation.”

“Ah.”  Killian finds himself suddenly at a loss for words, which is truly a rare event, but really, what can he say that might improve matters?  “You and your lad have been staying with the Lady Mayor, I take it?”

“Now and then.”  Loxley runs a restless hand through his hair.  “We’ve also been camping near the town line with my men, but I can hardly ask my wife to do either of those things.”  He fumbles over the word _wife_ , and Killian feels a kinship he’d rather not feel.  _Neal’s alive.  That’s right, the man Emma loves.  He’s here, in Neverland._

Bloody hell.

As much in hope of distracting himself as well as offering comfort, he puts out his hand to stop Loxley from continuing on his way. “You look like you could stand a drink, mate.”   Killian gestures towards the stairway that leads to the diner.  “And perhaps an ear to bend?”

The gratitude in the other man’s eyes is almost painful to witness. “You have no idea, but I do believe they’re about to close for the night downstairs.”

“And my own supply is running worryingly low.”  The widow Lucas is far from a soft touch, but perhaps her granddaughter might be more hospitable towards paying guests with a wish to imbibe after-hours.  “Never fear, I have an idea.”  He waves a joking hand at his bare feet.  “Just give me a moment to make myself respectable.”

Robin smiles for the first time since their conversation had begun. “From what I’ve heard, I suspect that would take more than a few minutes.”

They find themselves in the small courtyard where, only a few hours earlier he’d held Emma in his arms while she’d kissed him.  The she-wolf Ruby had fixed them with a gimlet eye at first, then seemed to take pity on them.  On Loxley, in any case.  “Just clear away the empty bottle and glasses when you’re done,” she’d instructed them sternly, “or else Granny will string you both up without batting an eyelid.”

He’d smiled at her, wondering if she and Emma have had the chance to discuss the matter of Princess Leia and Prince Charles.  Judging by the scowl she’d giving him, perhaps not. “I don’t doubt that.”

Now he and Robin are sitting in the cold night air and Killian vaguely wishes he’d taken the time to towel dry his hair more thoroughly, but the rum will soon take care of the chill.  He pours them both a generous measure, then lifts his glass.  “I hesitate to propose a toast, but -” 

Robin’s smile is melancholy.  “To life.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The booze burns a pleasant path over his tongue and down his throat, and he sinks back into his chair.  “Your wife, is she well?  Has she recovered from the shock as yet?”

The other man throws back his drink in one gulp, then also leans back in his seat.  “Yes and no.”  He reaches for the bottle, then seems to think better of it, putting both hands flat on the table.  “She’s overjoyed to be with us, just as I was overjoyed to see her alive and well.”  He glances at Killian quickly, then looks away again, his gaze fixed on a distant point on the horizon.  “The shock of it all, well, that’s another matter entirely.”

Killian pours another drink for both of them, then clears his throat. “And has she told you how we came to meet her in the Enchanted Forest?”

Robin nods. “She has indeed.”  His expression is pained, and he reaches for his glass with a faintly trembling hand.  “To say that I’d never imagined finding myself in such a predicament is something of an understatement.”

Killian sips at his rum, content to savour it now that the sharp edges of his thirst have been quenched. “The Regina you know now is a very different woman to the one who imprisoned your dear wife.”

“I know.” The other man sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes with long fingers.  “I fear that make this situation even worse.”  He gives Killian a look of quiet despair.  “If I didn’t know her heart, if I didn’t know the good that dwells within her, this would be much easier.”

“Easier if she was still the Evil Queen,” Killian murmurs, and Robin nods. 

“Precisely.  And the fact that I wasn’t able to speak to her about what happened tonight-” He breaks off, shaking his head, his glass cradled in his hands.  “I saw her face when she was speaking to yourself and Emma.”  He closes his eyes.  “I’ve hurt her badly, and I have no idea what I am going to do about it.”

“Mate, if there’s one thing you need to remember, it’s that _you_ haven’t done a thing to hurt her.”  Killian taps his fingers on his own glass, trying to find the right words.  “We saved an innocent woman from certain death and brought her to Storybrooke, and the result is your current dilemma, I’m afraid.”  He manages to catch Robin’s gaze.  “She’s your wife and you loved her deeply.  If you had been at all dismayed to find her still alive, then you wouldn’t be the same man who’d won Regina’s heart.”

“I love Marian.”  Robin stares down at his glass, as if it might hold the answers to his plight. They both know it doesn’t, of course, but that’s never stopped a melancholy man from trying. “But Regina-” He hesitates, as though to speak the words aloud is testament to adultery.  These are unique circumstances, however, and Killian has no qualms about prompting him.

“You love her.”

“Gods help me, I do.”  Robin finishes off the rum in his glass.  “But enough of this wallowing in self-pity,” he says flatly. “My son has his mother again and my wife is sleeping upstairs in a warm, soft bed, and that is what matters.” 

“Ah, but affairs of the heart are never quite that simple, mate.”

Robin looks at him. “And what of _your_ affairs of the heart? Judging by the way the sheriff was clutching your hand earlier this evening, it seems your adventure into the past achieved rather more than just saving Marian’s life.”

“Aye.” Killian doesn’t bother to fight the wide smile that touches his lips. “The Lady Swan and I have reached a new understanding.”

Robin looks impressed. “I’d imagine she was a tough lass to win over.”

Killian chuckles.  “Says the man who was courting the Evil Queen.”  As soon as he’s said the words, he wants to bite his tongue. “Sorry mate, probably not the best joke, giving the circumstances.”

Robin shrugs.  “It’s the truth, man, and there’s no denying it.”  He sighs heavily, and once again rubs his eyes.  “It’s my dream and nightmare combined, with broken promises no matter which way I turn.”  He looks at Killian with tired eyes.  “What would _you_ do?”

There’s a sudden lump in Killian’s throat.  “What do you mean?”

“You’d loved before, yes?  In the other realm?”

Killian swallows hard, but the lump in his throat remains, choking his voice. “Aye.”  There is still rum in his glass, but the thought of drinking it suddenly turns his stomach.  “But she died long ago.”

“How?”

“She was the wife of the Dark One.”  Killian is astounded at the ordinariness of the words.  “Before he was the Dark One, of course.”

Robin’s staring at him now, enthralled.  Whatever he and Regina have discussed in their private time together, it obviously hasn’t been the ancient history of the denizens of the town.  “What happened?”

“We made the mistake of crossing his path several years later.  He ripped out her heart and crushed it into dust.”  Again, Killian feels as though he’s telling the tale of a horror that befell a different man.  “She died in my arms.”

Robin’s eyes widen. “Hell’s bells, man. My apologies, I had no idea-”

Killian waves his hand, feeling a familiar darkness pricking at the edges of his thoughts.  “’Twas a long time ago.” They sit in silence for a long moment, then Robin speaks. 

“My question still stands, though.”  He looks at Killian.  “If you were in my situation, if the woman you’d loved but thought long dead suddenly returned at a time when you’d found happiness with another, what would you do?”

Bitterness burns at the back of Killian’s throat, a sour taste that has nothing to do with the rum.  There is no easy answer he can give to that question that doesn’t betray a heart, including his own.  Milah is long gone, deep in the arms of Poseidon for scores of years now, and nothing will ever bring her back.  He’d told Loxley that affairs of the heart are never simple, but Milah is gone and he is still here, and his heart and soul now belong to another.  “There’s no right or wrong here, mate,” he says softly, deflecting the question as politely as he can manage.  “It’s a bloody mess however you look at it, but the people you love are alive and well, rather than rotting in a box or lost to the tide.”   He pushes away his half-empty glass, knowing there is no more comfort for either of them to find in a grog bottle tonight.  “You should join your family, mate.  Enjoy the second chance you’ve been given.  Tomorrow will be here soon enough.” 

Robin rises to his feet, then claps him on the shoulder.  “My gratitude to you, Captain.”  He takes a step away, then stops.  “Perhaps the next time we share a drink, it will be in less fraught circumstances.”

Killian smiles at him, suddenly feeling every one of his years.  “I look forward to it.”

~*~

He dreams.

He dreams of Milah, her dark hair streaming as dark as blood over the wooden planks of the Jolly as she gasped her last.  He dreams of the white shroud that had hidden her face from his eyes as she’d slipped into the sea.

He dreams of Liam, the strong clasp of his brother’s hand on his shoulder (I’ll look after you now, Killian), the agonised scream that dies on his lips and is reborn in Killian’s own voice, screaming into the abyss, honour rewarded with death, dishonour rewarded with the most aching of loneliness. 

He dreams of Emma, her golden hair tossed asunder by the turbulence of the witch’s portal, her lips mouthing words he cannot hear as he begs her not to leave him, not to slip from his grip (useless, useless, one-handed pirate) and fall into the darkness.

He dreams of Emma falling through the portal, the dark earth closing over her head before he can reach her, stealing her from his sight, the hard ground solid and unforgiving and cold beneath his hand and hook as he frantically digs, his fingertips bleeding, his throat raw with the horror of losing her.

When he wakes with a violent jolt, his face is wet with tears. For the second time that night, he finds himself wiping a hand over his damp face, trying to get his bearings. 

“Bloody hell.”

Throwing back the covers, he suddenly wants to banish the darkness pressing in on him.  These are the nights when he misses the Jolly the most, when the solid floor beneath his feet taunts him with its stillness, and the thick curtains block out the stars and moon’s glow, making it so that a man could be anywhere in the realms and never find his way home.

Shunning the electric lights (he still marvels at their existence, however there are times when he craves the comfort of the familiar), he lights two of the many candles he’d placed about the room.  There are no ghosts in the room, of course, only in his nightmares.  He sits on the edge of his bed, scrubbing his hand across his face.  It has been an age since the familiar visions of grief and loss have disturbed his dreams, and that they should return when he’s on the brink of taking a step into a strange new life is painfully ironic.  Dreaming of Emma in a fashion that doesn’t involve her naked in his arms is also something new, and he returns to the scant details of the dream that he can recall, worrying over it like a dog with a bone. 

 _She’s safe_ , he tells himself.  She’s sleeping peacefully in her bed, surrounded by her family.  She’s safe and he will see her in the morning, and she will smile at him with open eyes, no longer hiding her heart from his gaze, and the memory of the nightmare will fade.

Getting to his feet, he goes to snuff out the candles, but a faint sound from the hallway outside his closed door gives his pause.  He stills, ears straining, then he hears it again.  It’s the sound of creaking floorboards, not caused by the steady footfall of someone walking to use the bathroom but by that of someone lingering and, in his long experience, people rarely linger in hallways in the middle of the night for good-hearted purposes. 

He reaches for his wrist brace and hook, loosely donning them both before snuffing out the candles, then walks silently to the door of his room.  The creaking sound comes again, and his jaw tightens.  He’s clad in naught but a borrowed pair of black sleeping trousers, but he has his hook, and that’s been more than enough on many an occasion.  Taking a deep breath, he pulls open the door, then stares at his late night visitor.

Emma blinks at him, her curled fist still raised in the air, obviously poised to knock.

 “Swan?”

‘Uh, hey.”  Her gaze drops to his bare chest, then his stomach, then down to the trousers the Prince had curiously referred to as sweatpants _._ She blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering, her gaze roaming over his torso before finally lifting to his face, and he allows himself a moment to drink in the sight of her. She’s dressed in a heavy coat he’s never seen before, her usual woollen cap pulled low over her head, her gloved hands clutching her son’s storybook before her like a shield. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“It matters not,” he reassures her, then checks the hallway behind her, unable to stop himself from fearing the worst, despite her calm demeanour. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”  The subtle curve of her mouth makes his own lips tingle with the memory of the taste of her. “You said we needed to talk?”

Perhaps there will come a day when Emma Swan stops surprising him, he thinks, but he doubts it will be anytime soon. “Aye, I did.”

“Then let’s talk.”

He glances down at his unclothed chest, uncomfortable aware of the darkened bedchamber behind and the spark of awareness glowing in her eyes.  He wants her so much he can scarcely breathe with the weight of it.  He believes in good form, but he’s only a man, and human frailty finds them all in the weakest of moments.  “Are you sure that’s wise, lass?”

“Not really,” she says softly, her grip tightening on the book in her arms, her gaze never leaving his face.  “But I’m here now, so are you going to let me in, or do I have to go back to my own bed and lay awake thinking about you until the sun comes up?”

He’s spent so long waiting for the smallest words of affection to fall from her lips that, for a moment, he thinks he’s misheard her.  Then he realises that this is real, _she_ is very real, and he is keeping her waiting at his bedchamber door. “Well, if you put it that way,” he says with a smile, waving a hand of invitation as he opens the door a little wider. “I’m at your disposal.”

Those green eyes flash again, countless unspoken thoughts flickering in their depths, then she smiles.  She steps into his room, turning to face him as he closes the door behind him.  “I have to talk to you about Henry’s book-” she starts, but he reaches for her in the darkness, holding her still.

“Wait, let me turn on the light,” he murmurs, then he feels it, the ripple of magic prickling his skin.  Around him, the candles flicker into life, turning the room aglow.  Startled, he looks at her, a smile touching his own lips as he sees her beaming at her handiwork.  One hand still raised, she gives him a look that clearly says she’s waiting for his critique, and he’s only too happy to oblige.  “Very impressive, Swan, but how did you know the candles were there?”

She dimples at him, her smile mischievous.  “I could smell the beeswax when I came in – did you have them burning earlier?”

“Aye.” 

 _“_ Such an old-fashioned gent,” she teases, and something light and hot ripples through the heart of him. 

“Guilty as charged, love.”  Curling his hand around her elbow, he draws her towards the small desk in the corner of the room, then liberates the heavy book from her grasp.  The feel of it in his hand is all too familiar, and for a brief moment he is once again in the past, surrounded by the scent of peat fires and unwashed bodies.  Then he blinks, and he is once more in the modern world, and the only scent filling his nose is a mingling of Emma’s perfume and candlewax.  Putting the book on the desk, he lifts his hand to her face, gently brushing his knuckles against her soft cheek, his eyes widening at the chill of her skin.  “You’re frozen, lass.”

“I know.”  She pulls off her gloves and tosses them onto the desk. “There is something very weird happening with the weather tonight.”  She stills, turning to give him a wary look, then shakes her head. “I gotta stop being worried that anything unusual means that something bad is about to happen.”

“In all fairness, love, around here it usually does mean just that.”

“Not helping.” She goes to backhand him lightly in the arm, then seems to think better of it. Perhaps his half-naked state is unsettling her, and while he’s pleased she’s affected by him, it might be more courteous of him to cover himself while they talk.  Her gaze follows him across the room, and he knows she’s watching him as he unscrews his hook and places it on the nightstand, then reaches for a simple white undershirt from David’s bag.  “Uh, that’s a different look for you,” she mutters as he pulls the shirt over his head.

Her voice is thready, a little breathless, and he smiles to himself.  “A pirate I may be, love, but I’d rather not freeze before I’ve had the pleasure of spending this evening conversing with you.”  He turns in time to see her strolling across his room to the bed, sitting herself down on the edge, her hands braced on either side of her.  A nervous swallow moves in his throat without conscious will, because Emma Swan is sitting on his bed and she is even more beautiful in the candlelight than he ever could have imagined. “You said something about your lad’s book?”

“I did.”  She’s plucking at the woven bedcovering with her fingers, her forehead creased in a frown. “But, uh, there’s something else I want to ask you, too.”

“I’m an open book as far as you’re concerned, love.”  Gingerly, he sits on the bed beside her, careful to leave a decent amount of space between them.  Bloody buggering good form again, he thinks. “Have at it.”

He sees her take a deep breath.  She looks at the floor at her feet, then the ceiling, then finally at him. “How did Zelena manage to curse your lips?” 

He closes his eyes.  Of all the secrets she had to touch upon, it would be this one, the one that has caused him so much shame, so much searching of his soul.  The one secret he vowed he would reveal to her before he had the honour of taking her to his bed.

“Killian?”  The concern in her voice has his eyes flying open.  She’s shifted closer on the bed, one hand hovering over his knee as though trying to decide if she should touch him. 

“It’s quite a long tale, love, but one I dearly wish you to hear.”  He catches her hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a hard, fierce kiss to her soft palm. “It doesn’t show me in the best of lights, I’m afraid.”

“I told you earlier.” Her gaze drops to his mouth, watching as he presses another kiss into her palm, her pale throat working as she swallows.   “It won’t change how I feel about you.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her, her hand still clasped in his, because they both know she’s never articulated her feelings for him.  He says nothing - he has no desire to pressure her - but the unspoken question flares between them nevertheless.  “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep, lass.” He lowers their joined hands, resting them gently on her thigh, and he feels the lean muscles there twitch at his touch. “There have been many times in my life when being a man of honour was the utmost thing from my mind.”

Her fingers curl around his, her free hand dancing between them in a dismissive wave. “You wanted to tell me?”  Leaning closer, she lets her gaze roam his face, dipping to his lips before once again meeting his eyes.  She’s smiling, but her tone invites no dissent. “Then tell me.”

He returns her smile, knowing she has no idea of the convoluted tale she’s just unleashed. “Well, the most important thing you must understand is that the little mermaid was never actually here in Storybrooke that day.  Rather it was Zelena in a wicked disguise, using Ariel’s friendships to worm her way into the heart of the town and entrap me into revealing my darkest, most shameful of secrets in order to curse my kiss in a vain attempt to remove your magic before you could dispatch her into oblivion.”  

Emma’s eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted, and he chuckles at her stunned expression.  “You alright there, Swan?”   He squeezes her hand.  “We _could_ save this tale for another time if you wish.”

She shakes her head, her eyes coming back into sudden focus.  “No, tell me everything.”  She shifts closer, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her, the hair on his arms standing on end as though charged with an invisible current.  Electricity comes in many forms, it seems.  “We’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

Her voice is low and soft and beguiling, bewitching him in a heartbeat, and he can no more resist her request than if she’d cast her magic net over his free will.  “Indeed we do, love.”  He hesitates for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts in order to properly convey the tale of a stolen ship, a determined mermaid and a painful epiphany that had ultimately set him on the course which had led him to her door in New York City.

Feeling distinctly as though he is about to set sail into unchartered waters - and praying that she truly means it when she says nothing he tells her will change her feelings for him - he takes a deep breath and begins to talk.

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a whole heap of feelings, angst, UST, sexy times and a realistic approach to birth control. If any of those things bother you, approach with caution.

~*~

Three things occur to Emma as she steps into Killian’s room at Granny’s.  One, it’s dark, with not a hint of moonlight coming through the window and two, she can smell beeswax and the faintest trace of smoke.  Smiling to herself, because it’s so typical of him to shun the electric lights in favour of candles, she takes a cautious step further into his room.  “I have to talk to you about Henry’s book-”

Halfway through pushing the door closed behind them with his hook, he curls his hand around her forearm. “Wait, let me turn on the light.”

He sounds almost disappointed, and she grins. The impulse comes upon her in an instant, and she doesn’t bother reining it in.  Closing her eyes, she reaches out, imagining breathing life into the tiny flickering flames, and feels the pull of it– _magic –_ deep in her chest.

Around them, the room is suddenly glowing with candlelight, and she can’t help the rush of pride that washes over her.  Open a portal with a magical wand?  No big deal.  Light half a dozen candles without a single match or lighter in sight?  Now _that’s_ fun.

Killian looks at her, his expression very different from the one he’d worn that night in Granny’s when she’d sent a cup of hot chocolate to his table.  _For one thing_ , she thinks, _he’s smiling_. “Very impressive, Swan, but how did you know the candles were there?”

She shouldn’t preen, but she can’t help it.  “I could smell the beeswax when I came in – did you have them burning earlier?”

“Aye.”  He looks a little embarrassed at being caught out, so to speak, and she can’t resist the urge to tease him.

 _“_ Such an old-fashioned gent.”

“Guilty as charged, love.”  He glances down, seeming to realise that his hand is still on her arm at the same time she does.  Instead of letting her go, though, he gently steers her towards the desk in the corner of his room.   When he finally stops touching her - he takes the book from her arms instead - she takes a moment to take a breath and collect her thoughts.  Oh, and try not to think about the fact that she can feel the heat from his bare skin and that her hands are literally itching in their gloves with the impulse to explore the sculptured planes of his chest. 

This may have been a mistake, she thinks, because now that she’s here, she doesn’t want to talk.  For the first time in the longest time, she wants to stop talking and stop thinking and just _feel_.  But she can’t, not yet, because _God_ , she wants to do this right.  If nothing else, she needs to do this right, because it’s too important - _he’s_ too important - to mess up. 

When she doesn’t speak – she’s still trying frantically to put her thoughts in the right order – he deposits Henry’s book on the desktop and lifts his hand to touch her cold face.  Just has he’d done in the Enchanted Forest, he brushes her cheek with the back of his knuckles, his expression unbearably tender. This time, while they’re once again bathed in flickering flame, there are no tears for him to wipe away.  “You’re frozen, lass.”

Her voice seems to come from a long way away. “I know.”  He’s suddenly too close (he smells of heat and sleep and Granny’s lemon soap), making her head buzz, and she quickly pulls off her gloves, disturbing the spell that’s wrapped itself around them.  His room isn’t that cold, thanks to Granny’s ancient central heating system, but she can’t quite bring herself to take off her heavy coat just yet. She hadn’t been planning to see him tonight, and if she had maybe she wouldn’t have worn a white sweater through which you can pretty much see every detail of her black bra. _Then again,_ she thinks as a warm flutter of anticipation curls in the pit of her belly, _maybe she would have._ “There is something very weird happening with the weather tonight.” 

As soon as she says the words, she darts a questioning glance at him, because nothing weird ever happens in this town without a good reason.  She gives herself a mental shake almost immediately, because come on, surely they deserve a break, at least for one day? “I gotta stop being worried that anything unusual means that something bad is about to happen.”

He purses his lips, one dark eyebrow arching.  “In all fairness, love, around here it usually does mean just that.”

 _So much for reassurance,_ she thinks wryly. “Not helping.” Out of habit (and just when had _that_ habit started?) she lifts her hand to smack him in the arm, then hesitates, because  there’s just too much bare skin and lean muscle and dark hair and if she starts touching him now, she might not stop.  His gaze snags hers, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.  Without saying a word, he turns and walks a few paces to where a familiar black gym bag has been tucked near his bed.  She gives up any pretense of not studying the lean muscles of his back and the curve of his ass as he bends and fishes out a white t-shirt.  When he rids himself of his hook and pulls on the modern shirt over his head as though he’s been doing it all his life, she finally manages to find her voice.   “Uh, that’s a different look for you.”

“A pirate I may be, love,” he shoots back without turning around, “but I’d rather not freeze before I’ve had the pleasure of spending this evening conversing with you.” 

Suddenly feeling beyond awkward standing in the middle of his room, she glances around.  His room is smaller than her old one, although the heavy dark furniture and mad floral wallpaper is identical, and her mouth goes dry when she realises that the bed offers the only place to sit.  She makes a hasty beeline for it, perching almost primly on the edge of the mattress.  The springs give a quiet groan (she remembers these beds all too well from her brief time as one of Granny’s lodgers, before she was booted out for having a criminal record, of course) as she sinks down onto it.  He turns, his gaze seeming to darken at the sight of her on his bed.  He makes no move to come closer, but the longing in his eyes makes her stomach do an odd little backflip.

Finally, he speaks, breaking the silence that seems to be growing thicker and more potent by the second. “You said something about your lad’s book?”

“I did,” she says in a rush, then stops, because she knows now that she doesn’t just want to talk about Henry’s book.  They need to go back further than that. She needs to know what happened during the year they were apart, because that’s where she’ll finally find the answers she’s been craving, at least, she hopes it is.  Knowing what she needs to hear from him and putting it into words that won’t make her sound like an idiot is hard, though, and it takes her a moment to answer him. “But, uh, there’s something else I want to ask you, too.”

She’s not looking at him, but she still hears the smile in his voice. “I’m an open book as far as you’re concerned, love.”  The mattress dips as he sits, leaving almost two feet of crocheted coverlet between them. “Have at it.”

There are so many things she wants to ask him, now that she’s actually let herself admit that she _does_ care about what had happened to him while they were apart. Taking a deep breath, she decides to start with the question that’s been bothering her for days. “How did Zelena manage to curse your lips?”

His eyes close, and she feels the sudden tension radiating from him. A cool trickle of unease slides down her spine, but she’s determined to keep going, because she’s tired of running from the all the unspoken words between them, and she knows he is, too.  “Killian?”  She shifts closer, wondering if touching him would help or just make things worse.  Opening his eyes, he fixes her with his usual bright blue gaze. 

“It’s quite a long tale, love, but one I dearly wish you to hear.”  Her hand is hovering in the space between then, and he’s quick to capture it in his, lifting it to his mouth.  Her breath catches in her throat as he kisses her palm, his lips firm and warm. “It doesn’t show me in the best of lights, I’m afraid.”

“I told you earlier.”  He kisses her palm a second time as she speaks, his soft beard grazing her skin, and she swallows hard, remember the feel of that mouth on hers only a few hours earlier.  “It won’t change how I feel about you.”

For the second time since her arrival, he raises a sardonic eyebrow, and she’s both impressed and annoyed that she knows exactly what he’s not saying.  Only one of the two people sitting in this room have made their feelings crystal clear, and it isn’t her.  “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep, lass,” he tells her, but there’s no sting in his words.  He tugs their entwined hands down until they’re resting between her knee and her hip, and she starts at the unexpected touch. “There have been many times in my life when being a man of honour was the utmost thing from my mind.”

He’s still paving the way for her to be disappointed, and a quiet flash of irritation dances through her.  She grips his hand a little tighter, waving away his words of warning (they both know that’s what they are, she thinks) with her other hand.  “You wanted to tell me?”  She searches his face for any hint that it was an empty offer, that he had just been telling her pretty words that he thought she wanted to hear, but all she sees is a man who wants to bare his soul. “Then tell me.”

He gives her a quick smile, then launches into a quietly spoken speech. “Well, the most important thing you must understand is that the little mermaid was never actually here in Storybrooke that day.  Rather it was Zelena in a wicked disguise, using Ariel’s friendships to worm her way into the heart of the town and entrap me into revealing my darkest, most shameful of secrets in order to curse my lips in a vain attempt to remove your magic before you could dispatch her into oblivion.” 

Smothering the creative curse words she’s tempted to utter, Emma stares at him, her brain trying to catch up with her ears. Okay, so he’s right.  This is going to be a long story, but it’s one she needs to hear.  Ducking his head to study her face, he offers her another quick smile.  “You alright there, Swan?”   His hand tightens around hers.  “We  _could_  save this tale for another time if you wish.”

“No, tell me everything.”  She moves closer, still clutching his hand, until her shoulder is almost touching his.  She doesn’t know if she’s seeking reassurance or trying to offer it, but she doesn’t care.  Either way, she feels better if she’s touching him, and she doesn’t care if her next words sound like a proposition, because, well, she thinks they both know she’s here for more than just talking. “We’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

He looks at her so intently, she imagines she can feel the weight of it on her skin.  “Indeed we do, love.”  He’s silent for another few seconds, and she knows him well enough now to know he’s steeling himself.    Finally, he brushes his thumb over her knuckles, his gaze locking with hers.  “You recall the last words I said to you before you and Henry left Storybrooke last year?”

She inhales a sharp breath. _There’s not a day will go by that I won’t think of you._ It’s the first time since her return (or even since he showed up at her door in New York) that either of them has mentioned that last terrible, poignant moment, and she’s suddenly not sure she’s ready.  “Of course I do.”

“As it turns out, thinking of someone you’ve lost every bloody day can be both a blessing and a burden.” His mouth curves in a wry smile.  “Something I should have known all too well.”

She knows she shouldn’t feel responsible for the sorrow threaded through his words, but she does. “Killian-”

“It’s alright, love.”  He smiles into her eyes.  “Just let me tell my sorry tale, and then you can have the floor.”  He waits a beat for her silent agreement, then goes on, his voice low and even.  “Perhaps I should have stayed with your parents once we arrived back in our own land, but I couldn’t bear not knowing what had become of my ship.  I knew she was out there.  I thought if I at least had _her_ again, perhaps I wouldn’t feel your loss as keenly as I did.”  His shoulders lift in a rueful shrug.  “I was wrong, of course.”

“You found her, though.”  She knows she’s pointing out the obvious, but she wants to make sure they’re both on the same page here. “The Jolly Roger.”

“Aye, but only because of the little mermaid.”

Making a vague mental note to explain the concept of movies to him at some point, she gives him a nod of encouragement. “Ariel.”

“That’s the one. She accosted me outside a tavern late one night-”

She knows she’d just agreed not to interrupt the flow of his story, but she can’t resist. “Drowning your sorrows?”

An odd expression flickers across his face.  “Something like that.”  He straightens slightly, as if stretching his back (her own back twinges in sympathy – portals are not the most comfortable modes of transport), then goes on.  “She accused me of kidnapping her prince and stashing him aboard my ship.”

“But you didn’t have your ship,” Emma murmurs, her mind skipping ahead, “so whoever kidnapped Eric-”

He’s nodding approvingly as she speaks, as if proud of her deductive skills. “Precisely.  Long story short, Swan, she had in her possession a vital clue as to the identity of the villain who’d purloined my ship, so we set off in search of both the Jolly and her prince.”

The light-hearted words don’t match the darkness in his eyes, and she can’t hold her tongue.  She knows that whatever secret he still has to tell her is tied up with his beloved ship, but this gradual reveal is like pulling off a sticking plaster very slowly, and she can’t stop herself from prompting him. “Who had the Jolly Roger?”

“Blackbeard.”

She stares at him. “The same Blackbeard who refused to help my mother escape the Evil Queen?”

“The very same.”   Again, something dark flickers across his face, and he goes on quickly.  “Blackbeard had indeed kidnapped Prince Eric and hidden him away on a remote island.”  He flashes her a smile, but there’s little humour in it.  “After I took back my ship,” he says lightly, glossing over what she suspects is a much longer chunk of the story, “he offered me a trade as the terms of his surrender.”  He’s staring at the floor at his feet now.  “The Jolly Roger in exchange for the secret of Eric’s location.” He breaks off, his gaze flicking up to their linked hands, and she suddenly gets it. 

Oh God, she finally gets it.

“You chose your ship over Eric.”

“Aye.” He’s still looking at her hand in his, as if he can’t bear to meet her eyes, and she vaguely notices that he’s not wearing any of his rings. She’s never seen him without them, and his fingers look strangely bare. “I made that cur walk the plank, and I sent him to the depths without a second’s hesitation.” 

He looks up at her as he bites out the last word, and the emptiness lurking behind his eyes has her hands aching to touch him.“And then _Ariel_ arrived in Storybrooke,” she hastily picks up the story when he doesn’t continue, “with no memory of meeting you and still desperately looking for Eric.”

“You understand now why I was reluctant to join in the search.”

“I do,” she mutters, then frowns. “Wait, wait.  How did Zelena impersonating Ariel make it possible for her to curse you?”

“With Belle’s help, it became painfully clear that young Eric was lost beneath the waves.”  He’s still looking at her, but she has the unhappy sense that he’s not really seeing her but reliving that day. “I still couldn’t bring myself to tell the mermaid the truth of our prior encounter. I was gut-sick and wretched with the burden of it but it was as though something had ahold of my tongue, holding it still.”  He shakes his head.  “She told me I was a good man, and then she walked away to grieve for her lost love.”  At first his voice is flat, detached, almost as though he’s talking about someone else, then it’s suddenly filled with fire. “I stared at that bloody horizon until the sun was gone, and then I finally asked of myself what _you_ would have wanted me to do.”

Her eyes are prickling, but she blinks the sensation away. “You told her the truth.”

“Aye, I did.”  His mouth twitches.  “For all the good it did me.”

Everything starts to fall into perfect, terrible place. “Zelena.”  Anger burns sourly in the pit of her stomach. “She played you.”

“I swore I would do anything to take back what I’d done, anything to make amends.”  His eyes are wet now, and she wants nothing more than to reach for him but she’s transfixed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  “She asked me to swear an oath on your name to prove my good intentions, and that gave her the chance she needed.”

It’s all fitting together now, and she doesn’t know whether to punch him or to haul him into her arms. “When you came to the loft that night, you weren’t looking for me, were you?”

“No, I confess I was somewhat dismayed to see you.”   He gives her apologetic smile.  “I wanted to speak to the Prince about what had transpired.”

She returns his smile, hoping to lighten the mood that seems to have enveloped them. “So that wasn’t modesty when we saw Ariel and Eric together.”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me by now, Swan, it’s that I don’t do modesty.” With that, he squeezes her hand, then releases it, as if wanted to put some space between them.  “That night, you looked at me as though you were finally seeing past the pirate, as though I was someone you could truly accept into your life.”  He shakes his head. “But it was based on a lie.”

“Killian-”

He doesn’t let her finish, talking faster now as though a dam has broken inside him. “I watched you drive away in that little yellow vessel of yours, Swan, and it was like having a part of me torn away, raw and bloodied.”  He lifts his left wrist as if to hammer his point home.  “This wound, at least, was quick and clean.”  His other hand is gripping his knee, fingertips digging in hard.  “But not when it came to you, love.”  There is no anger in his voice now, just a dull acceptance that makes her chest hurt.  “Every morning when I awoke in my own realm, I cursed anew with the certainty that you no longer knew me.”  

She thinks of all the times she’d insisted she was returning to New York, and how he’d fought her at every turn, and tears once again prickle hotly at the back of her eyes, because she’s been lying to herself (and to him) for so, so long.  She wants to tell him that none of this matters now, but he’s already speaking again, his tone almost mocking. “Once a pirate, always a pirate, it seems. I decided there was no longer any reason for me to be an honourable man, so I went right back to being the kind of man I swore I’d never be again.  I stole and I gambled and I drank myself into oblivion, and still I remembered every bloody morning when I woke that you were gone.”

Suddenly, just like that, she’s heard enough and knows whatever other secrets they need to share, whatever puzzles lay in Henry’s book, it can all wait. She gets to her feet, and he looks up at her, fear brimming in his blue eyes.  “Swan, what are you-” He breaks off when he sees she’s going nowhere but is simply unbuttoning her thick coat. “- doing?” 

His gaze sweeps over her, lingering on her breasts and hips, his expression changing instantly from dismay to something quite different, something dark and hungry that has her heart beating an unsteady tattoo against her ribs.  “Not sure if I’ve told you this, Swan, but you actually cut quite the figure in _any_ realm.”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” she shoots back teasingly, and his whole face lights up.  “It’s just getting a little warm in here,” she adds, and she can literally see him biting his tongue to stop himself from saying something risqué. Rolling her eyes, she tosses her coat onto the desk in the corner, and turns back to him.  “Look, none of that matters now.  I told you that I didn’t care what you’d done during the year we were apart and I meant it.” 

He pulls a face that would be comical if their conversation wasn’t so dire. “I suspect the mermaid would have a different opinion on that.”

“But she got her happy ending. She found her prince, and maybe one day you’ll have the chance to apologise to the real Ariel.”  She moves closer, tucking her fingertips underneath his chin to lift his head, forcing him to meet her eyes. “What matters to me is that you came back for me.”  She pulls off her beanie and runs a distracted hand through her hair. “More than that, you gave up your home for me.”

He blinks, looking for all the world as if she’s slapped him instead of praised him. “It’s not as simple as that, lass.”

“Yes, it is.”  Her beanie lands somewhere near her coat, then she’s sinking down onto the bed beside him again, running both hands slowly along the length of his left arm.  “You gave up your _home_ to bring me back to mine.”

His tanned throat works as he swallows hard. “You can see it that way if it pleases you, Swan.” He’s gazing at her as though she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, as though he can hardly believe she’s here with him, and it almost makes her want to look away. “But you’re not beholden to me because of it, love.” 

His every word rings with a raw, almost painful truth, and something sharp and brittle buried inside her, the last scraps of the fear and mistrust she’s been hoarding for so long, abruptly dissolves in the face of it. He loves her, and while she hasn’t yet found the courage to say the words (she knows the truth in her heart, but she’s not ready, not yet) living a life without him is no longer an option. She leans forward, exhaling as she rests her forehead against the curve of his shoulder, her hands still curled around his left arm, her words coming out in a rough whisper. “I’m so sorry I told you that I couldn’t trust you.”

She hears the sigh leave him, then feels the gentle tangle of his hand in her hair. “It was understandable, lass, given the circumstances.”

Lifting her head, she holds her breath as she brushes her fingertips over the black leather brace on his left wrist, then lifts her eyes to his.  He’s watching her, his gaze faintly apprehensive, and she can’t bear to see that look in his eyes a second longer. “Show me how this thing works?”

He licks his lips, another nervous tic she’s long noticed, a fleeting smile touching his lips.  “For future reference, Swan?”

“Something like that,” she murmurs, her fingers already fiddling with the straps and buckles that hold the brace in place.  It’s an impressive contraption (God, she’s starting to sound like him now), but she can only imagine it must cause him discomfort at times.  “So I just undo this, and-”

“Wait.”

There’s a flush of red high on his cheekbones as he puts his right hand over hers.  “It’s not the prettiest sight in the world, love.”

His tone is matter-of-fact, almost resigned, and in that instant, she’s suddenly furious.  Furious with Gold, angry with anyone who played a part in the taking of this man’s hand, for leaving him with a permanent, painful reminder of one of the worst days of his life for fucking _hundreds_ of years. He is clearly worried about her reaction to his injury, and it breaks her heart and fuels the fire burning in her belly in the same heartbeat. 

“I’m not going to run away.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps as his gaze drops to where her hands rest on his brace, then his slides his fingers between hers.  “Normally the strap fastens here,” he directs her fingers to a small buckle, worn smooth with age.  “But a late night caller to my room caused me to don it rather hastily this evening, I’m afraid.”  His smile is uncertain, almost shy, and she can no more stop herself from sliding her fingertips underneath the brace and slipping it off his wrist than she can stop herself from leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his surprised mouth at the same time.

He recovers quickly, kissing her back just as softly, a carefully gentle caress that still manages to send a flurry of sensation skittering through her whole body. He pulls back first, his eyes never leaving hers as he takes the discarded brace from her hands and puts it aside.  “You’re a remarkable woman, Swan.”

She says nothing, lost in her explorations. His left wrist is gently rounded, the skin slightly darker where his arm now ends, and she smooths her palm downwards, her fingertips tracing the pressure marks in his forearm where the brace had pressed.  “I never understood why you called him the crocodile,” she whispers, and his eyes flutter shut, both at her words and her touch, she thinks.  “And then we saw him in the Enchanted Forest, and I just-” Sadness tightens her throat, choking off her voice, and she bows her head, lifting his left wrist to press a lingering kiss to the healed wound.  “I’m so sorry he took this from you.”

“It was a long time ago now, lass, and I’ve spent far too many years mourning the man I once was.”  He smooths his good hand over the curve of her head briefly, then lets it fall to lay between them.  “I’ve since learned there are other ways for a man to find the will to keep living.”

She breathes out a shaky sigh, because he’s talking about _her_ (Echo Cave and all its secrets laid bare, she’s known for so long but she couldn’t let herself believe) and the simple words wash over her like poetry, just as they always do.  Lifting her head, she reaches for his right wrist, remembering a long-ago conversation, the smell of rum and the heat of his breath on her injured hand. She touches the colourful tattoo, her fingertips brushing over the dark cursive of Milah’s name.

“You must have loved her a lot to spend centuries trying to avenge her death.” She feels the subtle flinch that goes through him, but she goes on, keeping her voice as gentle as she can, because they both have a lot of emotional baggage (and then some) and she doesn’t want to pretend it doesn’t exist. “If you need to talk about what happened-”

“I will tell you of my time with her if you wish it, love.” His palm is warm against her cheek now, his thumb stroking the curve of her bottom lip. “But not tonight.”  His gaze finally drops lower to linger on her breasts, his eyes darkening with a hunger that makes her whole body clench. “Tonight I think we’ve dwelt enough on the past, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sliding her hands up his arms, she links her fingers loosely behind his neck. “That would be that whole ‘live in the here and now’ thing, right?”

“Exactly.”  The mattress dips as he leans closer, so close she can see the silvery flecks in his bright blue eyes. “You are finally in my bed, Swan, and a woman as beautiful as you deserves my full and prompt attention.”

He says the last few words in a teasing, sing-song voice, his lips tilting in a smirk, and a jolt of recognition goes through her.  “Are you serious right now?”  She wants to be annoyed, but he’s just kissed her shoulder, the heat of his mouth through the thin knit of her sweater making her shiver.  “Stealing pick-up lines from your past self?”

His quiet laughter buzzes against her collarbone, and her stomach clenches. “It’s hardly stealing if I’m the man who said it, surely?”  She tightens her grip on his hair, pulling back his head so she can see his face.  He smiles at her, any traces of lingering melancholy completely gone. “My former self may have had the pleasure of kissing you extremely thoroughly, but at least _I_ will remember every blessed second of it.”

“You know,” she breathes as she shamelessly invades his personal space. The freedom to simply flirt is intoxicating, and not just because this time it’s with the version who will remember her in the morning. “Technically, I’m _on_ your bed, not in it.”

He waves her words away, his eyes gleaming with both amusement and a longing so tangible that makes her feel giddy. “Mere semantics, Swan.”

She combs her fingers through his tousled hair, then brushes her fingertips along the curve of his jaw. “Speaking of the past you, I haven’t had the chance to tell you how much of a gentleman you were that night.”

His eyes widen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you were a gentleman.”  She trails her other hand down his chest, letting her fingers delve into the v-neck of his t-shirt, brushing the dark hair there.  “Very proper.”

“I find that hard to believe, love.”

“It’s true.  You treated me like a _lady_.” As she watches, twin spots of colour tinge his cheekbones, almost as if he’s embarrassed to have been exposed as anything other than a scoundrel. She’s made Captain Hook blush, and she’s having way too much fun to stop now. “You were disappointed that I wouldn’t tell you my name, and then you carried me onto your ship after I pretended to hurt my ankle.”

He stares at her. “I carried you onto the Jolly?”

“Yes, it was actually quite sweet.” She slips her hand a little lower, and he sucks in a sharp breath.  “Well, apart from the whole ogling my breasts thing.”  She grins at him.  “Why, did the past you violate some ancient pirate superstition or something?”

“Quite the contrary.”  He shifts restlessly on the bed beside her as her hand comes to rest high on his thigh, and she doesn’t bother hiding her smug smile. “It was quite common for a pirate to triumphantly carry home the delectable spoils of a successful pillage.”

Later, she’ll smack herself on the back of the head for her next words, but right now she’s too caught up in the simple joy of teasing him. “Like carrying the bride over the threshold?”

“Every tradition has to start somewhere, Swan,” he shoots back happily, not flinching one jot at the mention of the word _bride,_ and a muted panic grips her, because she has just officially lost control of this conversation.

_Crap._

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she tells him, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth, and his arms are suddenly around her, hauling her into his lap.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”  His lilting words imply he has many _other_ dreams involving her, but she has no time to react because he’s already kissing her, his mouth warm and firm and tasting even better than she remembered. She tightens her grip on his thigh - his muscles tense beneath her palm – and he ends the kiss with a throaty gasp. “And in my past self’s defence, Swan,” he whispers against her lips, “your breasts _are_ quite spectacular.”  As if to prove his point, he trails one fingertip along the edge of her low neckline, dipping into the hollow between her breasts and leaving a trail of goosebumps in the wake of his touch.  “I would have been most disappointed in myself if I’d failed to adequately appreciate them.”

“Maybe give your past self a _firm_ talking to?”  Drunk on the taste of him and the fire burning beneath her skin, she slips her hand between his legs to touch him, caressing the thick ridge of his erection through his borrowed sweatpants, and he almost jumps off the mattress.

“Bloody hell, Swan.” His hips shift in her direction, arching into her touch, and he nips at her bottom lip, his tongue immediately soothing the gentle bite.  “Is this how you behaved with the other me?”

“No.”  She explores the thick shape of him through the thin fabric (those leathers have definitely been protecting his modesty) and she hears him bite back a rough groan as his eyes flutter shut, a faint sheen of perspiration gleaming on his forehead.  “He did let me play with his hook, though.”

“Is that so?” She’s suddenly on her back, his knee between her legs, his hips aligning with hers with an accuracy that has her sucking in a jagged breath. His mouth covers hers in a kiss that’s hard and fierce and everything she’s wanted for so long, desire spasming hotly between her legs as his tongue curls languidly around hers.  “Temptress,” he tells her in an unsteady whisper when he finally lifts his head. “Sorceress.”

She slides her hands down his back to his ass, urging him even closer. “Pirate.”

She sees the smile in his eyes before she tastes it on his lips. He kisses her, softly at first, then with a rising heat that makes her pulse stutter. When his tongue slides against hers, she feels it _everywhere_ , a sudden rush of lust that slides through her belly, pooling hotly between her legs and tightening her breasts.

Winding her arms around his neck, she shifts beneath him until he’s lying in the cradle of her thighs, closing her eyes in agonised delight at the feel of him against her. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, his right hand sliding down her thigh, pulling it up over his hip as he rocks against her in a subtle rhythm that has her forgetting Henry’s book, the freakish weather and everything outside the door of this room, because this is everything and not enough all at once.

The kiss changes, becoming slower, almost sweet, then his hand is sliding beneath her sweater, skimming upwards over her stomach and ribcage to finally, _finally_ cup her breast, his touch seeming to scorch her through the thin material of her bra. By the time his fingertips delve beneath the lace to touch her skin, she’s shaking beneath him, literally shaking in her fucking boots. He tells her that she’s beautiful as he pinches her nipple gently, sending an arrow of sensation straight to her groin, and she suddenly realises that they’re about to jump off the cliff with no safety net.

 _Oh, no._ What was she thinking, coming here without any protection, knowing how the night was probably going to end?  God, she is _so_ out of practice at this kind of thing.

“Killian, wait.”

He closes his eyes, bowing his head to press his forehead against hers, his breath coming in warm, unsteady puffs against her lips.  “You alright there, Swan?”

She’s hot and bothered in the best possible way, but she knows she has to do this. Giving that they’re lying sprawled on his bed, his hand stroking her breast and her hands on his ass, this shouldn’t be an awkward conversation, and yet it is. “You know how I told you that you were a sponge?”

“Aye.” He lifts his head, taking his weight on his elbows as he gazes down at her. “I’d say you were killing the mood by bringing it up again, love, but I don’t think that would be possible at this point.”

Judging by the rock-hard press of his erection against the zipper of her jeans, she suspects he’s right. God, he feels so good, and it’s so tempting to just go for it, but she’s _not_ going down that particular path again.  “Ever heard of the phrase _safe sex_?”

“Sounds like a misnomer to me, darling.” He kisses her lightly, his hips twitching against hers in a way that manages to make it very hard to stop her train of thought from derailing. _Goddamn him._  “Sex should always be a little dangerous, don’t you agree?”

 _Time for some plain speaking_ , she decides. “So you’d be okay if I woke up tomorrow morning pregnant?”

His eyes widen. “Ah.”  He palms her breast gently, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone. “Well, if the truth be told-”

Just as it had when the word _bride_ hadn’t made him bat an eyelid, a mild panic grips her. “Don’t. God, just don’t, or the mood really will be killed.”  With that, she wraps her legs around his hips and rolls them over, pinning him to the mattress.

“Darling, if you wanted to be on top, all you had to do was ask.”

Ignoring his wolfish smile, she scrambles off the bed, feeling the wobble in her knees as she gets to her feet and walks to the chest of drawers opposite the bed.  Nothing.  She knows there’s no point checking the communal bathrooms, and it’s without much optimism that she pulls open the top drawer of the small nightstand. “I guess it’s too much to ask that-”

To be honest, she’d been expecting to find only a dusty thirty-year old bible in this particular drawer, but instead she’s staring at a small pile of condoms.  Grabbing one with a faintly unsteady hand, she presents it to him. “Did you put these here?”

He frowns as he shakes his head, the tousled hair falling in his eyes making him look ridiculously unlike a pirate captain. “Perhaps the she-wolf did so when she replenished the other supplies.”

Clutching the small foil packet tightly, Emma has to fight the urge to laugh at the thought of Ruby’s idea of housekeeping. She’s pretty sure that’s not something either of them will be mentioning to Granny any time soon, and she makes a mental note to buy Ruby an overpriced cocktail the next time they’re at The Rabbit Hole.

She drops the packet onto the top of the nightstand, tenderness squeezing her heart at the sight of his politely confused expression. “It’s called birth control here,” she informs him with a grin, “and we can talk about it more later.”

His answering smile makes her pulse race. “Not a one-time thing, then?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in centuries, love.” 

She feels her face redden, and wonders if she’ll ever get used to hearing him say such things, and she can’t help falling back into the habit of deflecting the compliment with humour. “Well, I only have thirty or so years up my sleeve, but I think you’re pretty impressive, too.” Sinking down onto the bed, she tugs off her boots and socks, then stretches out beside him once more, a hand of exploration sliding up underneath his t-shirt. “Now. Where were we?”   

He looks at her like a starving man presented with his first meal in weeks.  “I do believe we were somewhere like this,” he murmurs, then he kisses her, his mouth hard and soft and persuasive and demanding, the taste of him sharpening her desire to a knife edge.

They undress in the glow of flickering candlelight, their clothes falling to the ground with a soft slither, her hands pushing at elastic and zippers and buttons until there’s just skin and flesh and a desperate impatience. Naked, he’s beautiful, surprisingly smooth skin and hard, lean muscles that owe nothing to the inside of a gym. There are several small scars on his back and one on his side, and she touches them gently, knowing they’re a map of his previous life, a life she can barely imagine.

When her jeans and sweater are a distant memory, along with his own clothes, she unhooks her bra and sinks back onto the bed, leaving only a thin scrap of red lace between her legs to hide her from his eyes.  He sucks in a deep breath, both his hand and gaze touching her more reverently than she thought was possible.  Just when it starts to feel like too much, he shakes his head, his mouth curved in a rueful smile. “You are more glorious than I’d ever dared to imagine, love.”

With that, he bends his head to her breast, his mouth closing hotly over her nipple, his soft beard scraping and teasing the tender skin, sending a jolt of liquid desire straight to her groin.  Her fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close, fingernails practically scoring his scalp when he starts to use his teeth, biting her gently.  When she reaches down to push her underwear over her hips, his hand follows hers, his fingertips trailing down her belly to ghost teasingly over the damp heat between her thighs, making her bite back a moan.  Jesus, he’s barely touched her and she’s already halfway gone.  
  
Somehow she manages to kick away her underwear, uncaring of where they land, then crawls back up the bed to straddle him, taking him in her hand, the silky heat of him surging against her palm. Next time they can take it slow, but right now, she wants him too much to wait.  Giving him a reassuring smile, she shows him the condom. “Do you trust me?”

She means it as a joke, but he gives her a sombre nod, as though they’re about to undertake a solemn ritual and hell, maybe they are.  “To the end of time, Swan.”

“So dramatic.” Leaning over him, she lets her bare breasts brush against his chest as she kisses him lingeringly, savouring the dark sweetness of his mouth.  “It doesn’t hurt, I promise.”  He watches her from beneath lowered eyelashes as she works, his hips lifting as she slides her hands along the thick length of his erection, smoothing and adjusting.  When she’s done, she kisses him again, fitting her body against the hard contours of his, grinding slowly against him, the friction turning the slippery heat between her legs into an urgent, hollow ache that has her panting, her fingers digging into his chest as she moves above him. 

Muttering something vivid that wouldn’t be out of place on the roughest of docks, he abruptly sits up, his left arm wrapping itself around her as he rolls them, putting her onto her back once more.  She doesn’t care. Top or bottom, she just needs him to be inside her.  Wrapping her legs around his hips, her mouth opens beneath the delicate onslaught of his kiss as he slides into her with one sharp, thick rush of heat, her name falling from his lips in a harsh groan. “Oh, Emma. _Emma_.”

Shuddering with pleasure at the welcome sense of invasion, her hands flutter on his shoulders as she arches beneath him, gasping as he pushes deeper inside her, filling her until she’s breathless with the feel of him.

 _Fuck,_ she thinks, then she hears him say the same word out loud. He rocks his hips against hers, pushing deeper and harder still, everything growing thicker and tighter, pulling taut in anticipation.

Her ankles are locked at the small of his back, his mouth hot on her throat as their bodies begin a slow, languid dance, each new arch of his back bringing her closer to a world of unspeakable pleasure. She feels boneless and pliant, caught between the heat of his body and the rough woollen bedclothes, her senses filled with the scent of his skin and her perfume and the silken push and pull of his body inside hers. When he puts his lips to her ear, his whiskered chin scraping against her throat, she imagines she can feel each individual goosebump as it rises up on her skin. “Shall I tell you another secret, Swan?”  
  
Her breasts rise and fall with each gasping breath, the crisp hair on his chest teasing them maddeningly, and it’s all she can do not to roll him onto his back and simply fuck them both past the point of coherence. “Anything.”  
  
His breath is warm against the shell of her ear, his voice thick with the same sensual firestorm that has her in its grip. “I love you.”  
  
 _Oh, God._ She knew and yet she didn’t truly _understand_ until this moment, and it’s almost too much, too fragile, too precious. Her eyes prickle hotly, because just like his ship, she knows he’s giving up this piece of himself without expecting anything in return. “That’s no secret,” she whispers, then she’s kissing him fiercely, wanting him to _feel_ her answer, arching beneath him in silent demand, needing more, needing him as she’s always needed him but has never let herself admit.

He whispers a litany of praise and encouragement as his hand adjusts its grip on her hip, his body moving into hers again and again, harder and faster, daring her to let go, to give in.

She does.

She hears herself choke out his name when she comes, tossing back her head as the exquisite swell of flesh and heat rolls through her with a force that steals her breath, and she thinks she finally understands why it’s called ‘the little death’ in so many languages. He buries his face in the crook of her neck when he comes a moment later, mouthing her name against her throat as he shudders in her arms.  
  
They lay entwined for what feels like a long time, then she slowly eases her legs downward, feeling a cramp beginning to quiver in her thigh. Lifting his head, he gives her a faintly bashful smile that should seem absurd, considering what they’ve just done and the fact that his hand is still curled around her breast and they’re plastered against each other from chest to hip. “Bloody hell, woman.”  He’s flushed and smiling, his hair damp with sweat. “Tell me something, Swan, is it customary for the men of this realm to tell their lovers that they were bloody brilliant?”

Laughter bubbles up in her throat.  “If the occasion calls for it,” she tells him, gently biting her way down his bicep, tasting the salt of his skin, and he flashes her a wicked grin.

“In that case-” Rolling onto his side to face her, he lifts his hand to touch her face tenderly, his palm warm against her cheek. “You were bloody brilliant.”

“Mmm.” She closes the distance between them, touching her mouth to his in a slow, lazy kiss, letting her tongue tangle with his until they’re both breathless and the slow burn of arousal is once again churning in the pit of her belly.  “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

He shoots her an indignant look, the effect of which is pretty much ruined by the lingering kiss he brushes against her damp temple. “That’s high praise coming from you, love, and I’m happy to take it.”

A sudden rattling wind beating at the windows has them both starting, turning their heads in unison. “Sounds like it’s blowing a gale out there,” she says with a frown, then notices she’s the only one frowning.  “What?”

“Well,” he begins, his tone so patently nonchalant that she can’t help smiling, “if the weather’s _that_ bad, perhaps you shouldn’t risk driving home.”  She opens her mouth to tell him that maybe that’s not the best idea for her to spend the night (because this is what she’s done for ten years and old habits are still proving hard to break), but he goes on quickly. “We already have plans for a breakfast assignation, after all.”

“Well-” His face falls slightly as she pretends to consider the prospect, and she feels a twinge of guilt at teasing him.  To be honest, her internal struggle was over before it ever really began, because she doesn’t want to leave. She wants to stay in this warm bed and fall asleep with him and maybe find out if the incredible pleasure he’s just given her was beginner’s luck or if he really can live up to his promise of _fun._ On a less carnal note, there is still Henry’s book and the story of Leia and Charles.“It _would_ be dangerous to drive home now.”

She’s pretty sure that pirates aren’t familiar with the modern gesture of pumping a fist in the air, but if they were, Killian Jones would be doing it right now.  “Splendid reasoning, love,” he tells her, his smile growing when she rolls her eyes at his bare-faced cheek.

Hiding her grin at his reference to the _water closet_ (it’s adorable, actually) she takes him up on his offer to borrow his toothbrush and toothpaste (apparently he’s already formed a firm opinion on the best and worst brands Storybrooke has to offer). Maybe she should be surprised at how _comfortable_ it all is, but then again, he’s already seen her at her best and at her worst, and she him.  They’ve traveled through time together, which makes mundane things like who gets to use the bathroom first kind of redundant. 

To her amusement, he insists she pick the side she prefers, which she promptly does. “Okay, I finally believe it,” she murmurs as he pulls the covers up over them, and he looks at her curiously.  ‘You _are_ always a gentleman.”

He playfully mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘took you bloody long enough, Swan’, then he sits up again, contemplating the still burning candles.  “For safety’s sake, love, perhaps I should snuff out those-”

Snaking one hand from beneath the covers, she closes her eyes, feeling the now familiar tug of magic ripple through her.  The room darkens immediately, the candles going out in the same instant, and beside her she hears him chuckle.  He fits the length of his body along hers, his chest against her back, one long leg between hers.  “Sorceress,” he whispers, admiration shimmering in that one word, and her throat tightens with an emotion she’s almost afraid to name.

Closing her eyes, she finds his hand beneath the covers and his long fingers instantly tangle with hers. “Pirate.”

“Aye.”  His lips are warm on her bare shoulder, and she knows he’s smiling. “That I am.” 

 

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

~*~

Once again, he dreams, but not of Liam or Milah.

Only Emma. 

This time, the dream is different.  This time, he saves her from the portal, hauling her upwards and into his arms, falling with her onto the ground in a slow embrace, her tears damp against his cheek, her name a shout of relief on his lips.

This time, he doesn’t awaken with a violent start but a slow sense of coming up to the surface through a thick layer of slumber. It’s the howling wind that has woken him, then he realises something else, something much more interesting. 

Emma Swan is in his bed. 

He has no idea of the time. The room is completely dark, the shrieking gale outside still rattling the windows.  All he knows is that Emma is sprawled beside him, lying on her side with her back to him (a butterfly light touch of his fingertips down her spine helps him find his bearings), one bare foot hooked over his calf as though anchoring her body to his as they sleep.  The warmth between them smells of sex and warm female skin, the lingering traces of her perfume teasing his nose. 

This is definitely something to which he could become accustomed. 

His body still aches (both from their recent sojourn into the past and other, far more enjoyable exertions) but he is suddenly very much awake. Emma Swan is sleeping in his bed after making love to him with a fierce hunger that made even his most daring of imaginations seem staid and mundane.  How can he possibly go back to sleep now?

He rolls onto his side, allowing himself the liberty of brushing her tumble of hair aside to give him better access to all that bare skin he knows is only inches away from his mouth and his touch.  He kisses the nape of her neck softly, and she murmurs in her sleep. She shifts backwards, her arse fitting perfectly into the cradle of his hips, and his cock instantly stirs into life at the brush of her bare flesh against his.

Stars above, but she is beautiful. Inside and out, and now he knows both sides of her far more intimately than he ever hoped to dream.  Closing his eyes, he thinks of her teasing words of brides and warnings of finding herself with child.  If she’d been trying to frighten him with either notion, she failed utterly and, for the first time in a very long time, the future stretches out ahead of him, not as a barren, empty path to a pointless end, but a journey of discovery and hope. She has taught him more in the short time he’s known her than he would have thought possible, and that she appears to have chosen to let him into her heart still fills him with a sense of joy so potent, it is almost overwhelming.

He exhales roughly, knowing he should let her sleep (she had been as exhausted as he, if not more so, by their journey into the past) but he is unable to resist temptation.  He nevercould when it came to her.

By the time he’s kissed his way halfway down the delicate line of her spine, she’s awake, stretching her whole body with a delicious groan that has him hard and aching in a heartbeat.  “What time is it?” she asks in a voice thick with sleep, and he smiles at the simple sound of it. 

_Definitely something to which he could become accustomed._

“No idea, darling.”  He skims his right hand down her side, then over the curve of her hip, then the swell of her arse, momentarily cursing the darkness.  He’s followed her into many an adventure, and he knows all too well the breathtaking shape of the naked backside beneath his palm. That it’s hidden from his eyes at this moment seems like a travesty, but there are other ways to learn the secrets of the flesh.  “The storm is still raging, it seems.”

She rolls over until she’s facing him, almost trapping his exploring hand between them.  In the darkness, he hears her breathe out a long sigh, then feels the softness of her bare breasts against his chest as she wraps one arm around his waist.  “I guess I made the right decision not to drive home.”

“Well,” he murmurs, sliding his hand over the curve of her arse to pull her ever closer, “safety first always  _has_  been your motto, I believe.”

“Can you blame me?” She kisses him then, slow and lazy, warm lips and tongue tasting and teasing until they’re both breathless.  He palms the tender weight of her breast, rubbing his thumb over the tight peak of her nipple, and she breaths a shuddering sigh into his mouth.   “This still doesn’t feel quite real,” she whispers, her voice small and quiet, and something tightens deep in his chest.

“I assure you it is, love.”

She kisses him again, her fingertips trailing down his stomach with unmistakable intent.  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she tells him, then she’s touching him, her hand warm and soft, stroking and teasing, her thumb making tiny circles that almost has him seeing white spots behind his eyelids.

_Gods, give him strength._

“Not so fast, Swan.”   Pushing her gently onto her back, he slips down the bed (his cock may never forgive him for doing away with that lovely hand of hers) until he’s lying between her thighs, his chin on her belly.  “I’m afraid there’s something else I must do first.” 

“What’s that?”  Her voice wobbles over the words, and he’s fairly sure it’s because he’s kissing his way down her belly, bestowing gentle nipping kisses until she’s shifting restlessly beneath him.  He presses one last kiss just above the delicate flesh between her legs - mound of Venus, soft and slippery, sweet and salty, giver of life, stealer of men’s souls - before smoothing his hand up her thigh, hooking it over his shoulder.   His pulse pounding in his ears, he brushes his lips over her, feeling the tiny tremor that ripples through her, then smiles.  She’s even more delicious then he’d dared to dream.

“I’ll show you, shall I?”

She tastes of the sea, slick and briny, the delicate shape of her filling his mouth with heat even as her soft gasping sighs fill his ears.  He feels her hands on his head, her fingers moving dreamily through his hair, tightening and flexing in time with his ministrations, and he wants to devour her whole, make her writhe beneath him.  She’s saying his name now in a throaty whisper, over and over again, her hips lifting, pushing herself against his mouth in desperate entreaty.  He finds the heart of her with his lips and tongue, sucking harder, then finally uses his fingers, slipping two into the tight heat of her quim, curling them inside her until he hears that catch in her breath once more.  He performs the ritual again and again, until she is indeed writhing beneath him and he’s impossibly hard, his cock rubbing against the rough sheets as he shifts his hips.  “Fuck,  _Killian._ ”

He cannot see her face when she peaks, but he knows he will never forget the sound of her pleasure. 

Afterwards, he wipes his damp face on the nearest piece of coverlet – her scent is a badge of honour he’d happily wear, but he was a gentleman before he was a pirate – and crawls back up the bed, stretching out beside her, his hand cupping her face in the darkness.  “Did that feel real, love?”

Her arms curl around his neck, pulling him close.  “What do you think?”  As she speaks, he feels an eerie brush of  _something_  against his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end, then the room is once again bathed in candlelight.  Her soft laughter chimes like a delighted bell (it reminds him of that evening in the diner when he was so very angry with himself) and he smiles as he looks down at her flushed,  _happy_  face.  Her hair streams over the pillow like a golden waterfall, her breasts rising and falling in a delicate rhythm as she slowly catches her breath. 

“I think we should come to an agreement now as to what might be out of bounds when it comes to making things vanish into thin air, darling.”  He bends his head, touching his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss that quickly catches fire, sending a jolt of hunger through his blood.  Lifting his head, he sees her eyes widen at the feel of him against her thigh, the pink tip of her tongue swiping a slow path over her bottom lip. 

“Well, I hear that it’s bad form to tamper with a man’s hook,” she recites, her eyes sparking with mischief, her hips beginning a slow, teasing rocking beneath his.  “But I’m sure I can think of some other appendage to practice on.”  He opens his mouth to offer his customary thoughts on the subject of appendages, but she’s one step ahead of him, as usual.  “Starting with this one, I think.” Picking up right where they’d left off, her hand slides between them to curl around his aching cock, stroking and cupping until he’s biting back a groan of raw pleasure that threatens to wake the whole bloody town. 

 _Damn the woman,_  he thinks dazedly as she pushes him onto his back.  She’s bewitched his body and his mind and he’s never been happier to be under someone’s spell.

With the candles once again lit, he watches her as she retrieves yet another tiny package from the nightstand, then tears into it carefully.  “It’s called a condom.”  She presses it into his hand as she leans over him, her breasts against his chest, the slick heat between her thighs finding the ridge of his cock as though they are two pieces of a puzzle made to fit together.  She takes his hand in hers, draws it down towards where they are almost joined, her whisper throaty in his ear.  “And it’s made of something called latex.”  He knows they are mundane words, but she manages to make them sound unbelievably filthy, and he’s practically vibrating with need by the time she’s guided him through the simple ritual of sheathing himself. 

“Emma, love, please-”

She whispers only one word – _yes_ – then she’s arching above him, taking him inside the tight clasp of her body with one swift, thick rush of heat and need, the world instantly narrowing to where they have become one flesh.  He reaches for her, left wrist resting on her hip, his right hand on her breast, her eyes fluttering shut as he rubs his palm over the tender jut of her nipple. 

“You’re a magnificent thing, Swan,” he mutters, then one hand is flat on his chest, the other gripping his wrist (his _left_ wrist, and her touch on his maimed limb once again makes his heart contract), anchoring herself as she moves above him, her breast filling his other hand perfectly. 

They move together as though they have been intimate for an eternity rather than a single evening, and each new thrust upwards into the tight warmth of her has him edging towards oblivion as swiftly as a callow youth in the heady throes of his first encounter.  Dusting salt into his ego’s wound, Emma appears to be prepared for the long haul, greatly enjoying the pleasure his body is offering but showing no signs of tumbling to her completion.

It’s time to be less of a gentleman, he decides.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he curls his hand around the nape of her neck and pulls her mouth down to his for a ravaging, devouring kiss that has her quivering against him, the steady movements of her hips becoming haphazard, almost erratic.  When he angles his hips, driving them upwards with a roll, she gasps hotly into his mouth, her hands coming down to grip his shoulders, fingernails scoring his skin.  “Fuck.”

Perhaps it’s the pirate in him, but the obscenity falling from such lovely lips has him growing even harder inside her, and he can no longer control the urge to slide a faintly trembling hand between their sweat damped bodies to rub his fingers over the slick, secret heat between her legs.  He’s told her many a time that he’s a fast learner, and he suspects he’s learned nothing quite as quickly as the secrets of Emma Swan’s body. He brushes his thumb against her, watching as her lips part on a rough sigh, then presses a little harder, timing his strokes to fall in line with the rocking of her hips. She’s panting now, making quiet little sounds of entreaty beneath her breath, rocking against him with a desperation that is almost unbearably erotic. Wrapping his left arm around her back, he bows his head to her breasts, kissing and biting at the tenderly puckered flesh, knowing it will now be a matter of mere seconds before she falls.

He’s right. 

He feels it taking hold of her, the spasm that trembles through the leanly muscled thighs straddling his hips, the tremor in her breath as she says his name.  When the pleasure drags her under, she tosses back her head, her hands clawing for purchase on his chest as she grinds herself down onto him, and the exquisite quivering of her flesh around him proves his downfall. Her name is soon a strangled shout tearing from his throat, his heartbeat pounding in his head and his heart and his cock as he loses himself, his body pulsing deep inside the heat of hers, stealing his breath with the sheer force of it.

She collapses onto his chest in a boneless heap of smooth flesh and silky hair, her breath coming in shuddering waves as his body slips from the sleek grip of hers.  “ _Jesus._ ”  He feels the brush of her lips on his chest, her words muttered against his damp skin. “That was something else.” 

He grins.  He may be a newcomer to this realm and all its idioms, but he knows a compliment when he hears one.  “My thoughts exactly, Swan.”  Her hair is a soft tumble beneath his hand, and she stretches languidly against him when his fingertips reach her scalp.  “What was it you said earlier?” He presses his thumb and forefinger at the base of her skull (a healer in a distant realm once told him that such a touch calmed uneasy thoughts. It had never worked for him, sadly.) and she makes a contented humming sound.  “You weren’t so bad yourself?”

Her laughter is quiet and sated and wraps itself around him like warm silk.  “You’re such a sponge.”

He closes his eyes, savouring the feel of her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the hair on his chest.  She seems quite taken with this particular aspect of his physique, and he is certainly not complaining.  “What can I say, love?”  He kisses the top of her head, his nose filling with the delicate scent of her hair.  “I’m a motivated man.”

~*~ 

She dozes as he disposes of the thin sheath (he hasn’t had the heart to tell her that he’sheard talk of such things in many realms, although from memory they were constructed of animal intestines rather than her realm’s far less distasteful latex, whatever that might be) and fetches her a glass of water.  Finally, after he’s returned to bed and she’s made a few amusingly high-pitched noises at the temperature of his bare feet, they talk.

Well, to be more precise, she asks him a question that’s obviously been in the back of her mind for a long time, simply waiting until the opportune moment.  She studies his tattoo, and he braces himself, but her question is not about Milah. “Tell me how you met Neal?”

The flickering candlelight throws ghostly shadows on the wall as he contemplates the enormity of her simple question, and he has to admire the irony. “I plucked him from the ocean when he was just a lad, after Pan’s shadow had made a rare error and dropped him mid-flight.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding me.”

“Fate has many odd ways of unfolding, Swan.”  He curls his hand around her bare shoulder, letting his fingertips dance down her arm.  “Though until I met you, love, I had no idea just  _how_ many.”

“Did he know who you were?”

He feels a tight smile touch his lips. “You mean did he know I was the man whom he believed had stolen his mother from her family and driven his father to insanity? Not at first, no.”  His voice sounds flat, even to his own ears, and Emma is quick to prop herself up on one elbow, touching his face with a gentle hand. 

“Don’t do that,” she whispers, her eyes searching his.  “Just tell me the story, okay?”  Her voice is as soft as the hand on his cheek, the heat of her naked body huddled against his beneath the covers generating a reassuring warmth that goes far beyond the ritual of sex, and the tension tightening his bones eases.

“When I fished him from the sea, I had no idea he was Milah’s boy.”   The sound of her name no longer tastes sour on his tongue, and he’s glad. “She had drawn many pictures of him during our time together, but she would never allow me to look upon them.”  He closes his eyes, his memory filling with visions of Milah tearing parchment into tiny shreds before letting the wind take them from her fingertips, her eyes glittering with angry tears. “She always destroyed them afterwards, as if by ridding herself of them, she could put the thought of him out of her head.”

She lays her cheek against his chest, one arm draped around his waist. “How long was he with you?”

He frowns as he considers the question, because it was all so long ago, and Neverland has a way of messing with a man’s head.  “It’s hard to recall now, love.”  He touches his lips to her warm temple, letting the scent of her fill his senses.  “I do know it was long enough for me to come to think that I might actually be able to honour Milah’s wishes to make a home together with her lad.”

She says nothing for a long moment, and he wonders if she’s thinking of all the times they’ve discussed his Baelfire and her Neal, and whether it’s only now sinking in that they were indeed one and the same. “How did he find out who you were?”

“As always seems to be the case in these tales, it was quite by accident.”  He gives her a smile that feels more than a little crooked.  “He found a self-portrait that his mother had drawn that I’d stowed away in my cabin.  It was something I’d usually keep close to my heart, but ironically hadn’t felt the need to carry since her lad’s arrival on the Jolly.”

She sighs, her breath warm against his skin. “Let me guess. It all went downhill from there?”

“If  _downhill_ means that young Baelfire immediately denounced me as a villain and demanded I return him to the Darling family post haste, then you would be correct.”  He doesn’t tell her how he’d begged the lad to stay, that he could change for  _him_ , that they could create the home that Milah had always wanted for them.  There are some secrets that are not fit to be shared.

A frown tugs between her eyebrows.  “But you didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have ended up in Neverland.”

“The Lost Boys discovered us first, I’m afraid.”  Such bland words to describe a moment that haunts him to this day.  “I’d manage to conceal him aboard the Jolly from them once before, but not this time.”  He hesitates, drawing back so he can see her face properly.  She’s told him more than once that nothing will change how she feels about him, but perhaps she didn’t reckon on hearing this particular tale.  “They gave me a choice,” he finally says, because  _this_ secret he can no longer bear to keep from her. “Let them take the lad or lose my crew to the depths.”

“And you choose to save your crew.” 

He smiles at her sadly, and wonders if she feels the same sense of déjà vu that’s suddenly gripped him, and if she’ll be as understanding this time. The mermaid and her missing prince were one thing, but this is something much more personal.  “A pirate always does, Swan.”

“Not always.”  Their eyes lock, and he sees the knowledge of the time he did chose something else ( _someone_  else) over his crew and his ship gleaming in her eyes.  _You traded your ship for me?_ The thick knot of anxiety lodged in his throat loosens, and he swallows hard.

“No. Not always.”

Smiling, she rests her chin on his chest once more, her gaze still holding his. “Did Milah always plan to go back for him?”

There’s no judgment in her tone, and it makes it easier to let the words come. “She spoke of it often,” he tells her.  “I would have travelled across the realms to retrieve him if she’d asked.”  His hand is buried in Emma’s soft hair, but he’s suddenly in a very different room, a very different time.  “I would have raised him as my own.”  He blinks, and the Captain’s quarters of the Jolly suddenly vanishes, and he is once again wrapped up in the comforting warmth of Emma Swan. “But she would say that it wasn’t yet time.”  He shrugs, his shoulders rubbing against the roughly hewn linen. “That we needed to wait until he was older, until his father would be more inclined to let him go.”

He stares up at the ceiling, sifting through the years and years of grief and mourning, trying to pick out the kernels of truth woven in between.  “Now I wonder if she truly would have returned for him in time. We never spoke of it, but I think she had begun to believe he would no longer welcome her with open arms but only despise her for leaving him.”  The words are spilling out now, and he feels a cold rush of betrayal.  _Forgive me, my love,_  he implores silently. He has carried the weight of this alone for too long, and he can longer bear to keep it locked inside his heart. “When a wound is left to fester long enough, it can never be healed.  In the end, too much time passed, and her fear had won.”

Emma moves restlessly against him, sorrow tinging her features. “That sounds kind of familiar, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what happened with Neal.”  She’s very carefully not looking at him now, her gaze trained on the flickering shadows on the wall. “He told me he’d been afraid that I’d hate him for what he’d done, and that’s why he never came looking for me.”

He hesitates.  Bae will always be in his heart, but there is much he wants to say on the subject of Emma being incarcerated for a crime that was not her own, even more on the subject of her being with child when she had been abandoned. He bites back the words, however. They would serve no purpose, not tonight.  “And did you?”

“I did.”  There is a lifetime of heartache in those two words. “For a very long time.”

“We all take after both our parents to some degree, love.”  Thinking of his own father, he can only hope this may not true in his own case, but he knows he cannot pick and choose his filial inheritance. “Perhaps there was more of his mother in him than he realised.”

She arches a well-defined eyebrow at him. “According to Gold, I have my mother’s chin and my father’s tact.”

“You have a lot more than that, love.” He chuckles softly, bringing her hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “No mention of a tendency to punch first and ask questions later?”

She very gently bumps her knuckles against his jaw. “Hey, give me a break. It was only that one time.”

They lay in silence for a moment, the only sound the low moaning of the wind outside, then she raises herself up on one elbow to stare down at him. “Hang on, how did you run into Gold if you hadn’t come back to get Neal?  Bae, I mean. I thought that’s how Gold found you.”

A sense of disloyalty once again presses at the edges of his thoughts, but he promised to tell her the truth, and so he shall.  “We weren’t in port that day because of Bae.” She frowns at that, but says nothing, waiting for him to continue.  “We’d come to trade and replenish our supplies, and it was merely a coincidence that I encountered the Dark One.”

She lets out a long sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath.  “I think you’d better tell me the whole story.”  Her hand finds his and squeezes it gently. “Just so I can understand, okay?”

He does.  He speaks of his encounter with the Dark One in the alleyway behind the tavern, and how at first he hadn’t recognised the man to whom Milah had been wed.  He tells her of the challenge issued and accepted, and how he’d returned to the Jolly knowing it could very well be the last time he’d step onto her deck.  His crew had been rattled by the incident, but there had also been a dark ripple of anticipation running through them.  “It never occurred to them that I might lose,” he says flatly, and she gives him a sad smile. “I didn’t tell Milah,” he adds, and her frown returns.

“But your crew-?”

“Sworn to secrecy.”  He looks at her, willing her to understand. “She hadn’t seen what had become of the crippled coward she’d left behind. She wouldn’t have been afraid of him.”

“You wanted to keep her safe.”

“Aye.”  The sadness in her eyes makes him want to look away.  “She managed to wheedle it out of the crew after I’d gone, however.”  He tries to smile, but suspects it’s merely a grimace. “She was a very strong-willed woman.”

Her expression smooths, becoming almost unreadable. Almost. “Seems you have a type, then.”

He tightens his grip on her hand where it rests on his stomach. “Apples and oranges, Swan.”

That earns him a tiny smile, and he takes a deep breath.  “She found us duelling in the alleyway. Saved me from the Dark One’s sword by offering him a trade.  A magic bean for our lives.”

“Again with the magic bean,” Emma mutters, almost as if to herself, then looks at him with glittering eyes.  “You don’t have to tell me what happens next.”  Her hand skims down his body to curl around his left wrist, her touch soothing.  “I think I can guess.”

“Milah still wasn’t afraid of him.” He needs to tell her, if only this once. “We agreed on a deal, then they began to argue.”  He closes his eyes, but he knows nothing will ever cleanse his thoughts of the memory. “She told him that she’d never loved him.” He hears Emma’s small intake of breath, and her hand tightens around his wrist.  “He put his hand into her chest. I had never seen such a thing.”  He hears his voice crack but he keeps going, because once these words are spoken, he will never have to speak them again. “He bound me to the mast of my own ship, releasing me in time for her to die in my arms.”  Behind his eyes, he sees it still.  The shock on her face.  The pain in her voice.  The dust that had once been her heart dancing through the air like black sand.

The chaste press of Emma’s lips on his forehead sends a faint rush of warmth through him.  “And your hand?”

“Sliced clean off to obtain the bean I’d refused to give up.”  He opens his eyes, his gaze meeting hers.  “Wrong hand, I’m afraid.  The Dark One had become too accustomed to magic.  He didn’t realise that any mere mortal could perform a simple sleight of hand trick.”

“But once he’d realised he’d been wrong, why didn’t he-?” She breaks off, a look of horror coming into her bright eyes. “Oh, God, he literally took your hand  _away_. That’s what you said to me, when we first met in the Enchanted Forest.  You wanted revenge on the man who  _took your hand.”_  

“Aye.” Curling his arm around her, he tugs her closer, hating that he has distressed her. “He took my hand and he took his leave, telling me I’d die before I found a way to kill him.”

Her hand finds his beneath the covers, her fingers weaving themselves through his, as if to reassure them both that he is still in possession of least one of his hands. “Leaving you with the magic bean.”

“Which I promptly used to open a portal in order to avail myself of the most deadly poison in all the realms.”

“So he basically gave you both the motivation to kill him and the means to find the only thing that  _would_ kill him.” She tilts her head to one side, a resigned smile curving her lips. “I’m not sure Gold would appreciate the irony, even now.”

He shares her smile, knowing she’s finding little humour in the situation, but rather appreciated the utter madness of it all. “I’d rather not give him the opportunity to redress the situation.”

“What happened when you reached Neverland?”

Flashes of memory - abject darkness and the sound of weeping children, the feel of a knife at his throat, the blood of a manchild called Rufio on his conscience - roil uneasily through his head, and he squeezes her hand gently. “If I might beg your indulgence, Swan, that is a tale for another time.” He does not wish to speak further of Neverland tonight, unless it’s to discuss the glorious kiss she’d bestowed upon him after the trek to Dead Man’s Peak. He plans to bare his very soul to her, but perhaps not all in one evening. 

He also suspects she’s merely continuing her polite interrogation as a method of avoiding whatever it is she truly came here to discuss.  “Before the candles burn down and weariness takes us away into slumber, Swan, perhaps you should ask the questions you really wish to ask.”

She hesitates, suddenly looking bashful.  It’s not an expression he’s accustomed to seeing her wear, he has to admit, and he cannot resist the urge to prompt her with a smile.  “Come now, love. You came here tonight with your son’s book in your arms and questions burning in your eyes.”  He taps a teasing finger on her arm. “Don’t you think it’s time you asked them?”

“Before I chicken out, you mean?”

“Chicken out?”

“Never mind.” Grinning, she startles him by throwing back the bedclothes, then quickly darts across to the desk, coming back to bed with the storybook hugged to her breasts.  “Damn, that floor is  _cold.”_ She dives back beneath the covers and tugs them up over herself before leaning back against the pillows, the book on her lap. “Okay. I’m not the only new addition to the book.”  She snakes one bare arm from underneath the covers to turn the pages, and his heart abruptly flips over in his chest, because there they are, rendered in brilliant colour as they dance in King Midas’ ballroom. 

He’s familiar with the notion of photographs now, thanks to her lad, but this is something quite different.  This is an intimate moment, forever frozen in time, and as he studies the smiles they’d gifted each other while dancing, his pulse quickens almost painfully. He remembers holding her, guiding her through the waltz, and the way her eyes had never strayed from his face, her hand gripping his shoulder as though she never planned to release him. “You’re in there, too,” she adds unnecessarily, given that she’s tapping her fingernail on his face.

He studies his profile. “It’s a lovely likeness, even if I do say so myself.”

“Really?” She punches him lightly in the arm, and he grins.  It appears that, despite their new intimacy, there are some things that will be remaining unchanged. “The thing is, we’re not in there as Princess Leia and Prince Charles.”  She points to the opposite page.  “This book knew who we really were.”  She indicates a particular line.  “Look at this.  _Emma Swan, daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming.  Killian Jones, former lieutenant of the King’s Navy_.”

He pulls himself up into a sitting position, his shoulder pressed against hers as he stares at the words, his pulse racing anew.  It has been an unspeakably long time since anyone referred to him as such, and seeing it etched in stark black ink is startling.  When he doesn’t speak, she gently leans into him.  “There’s no mention of a Captain Hook anywhere in here, in case you were wondering.”

He actually had been wondering just that, but it doesn’t do to let her know just how well she can read him  _too_  often. “Well, it _is_  just a moniker, love.”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she murmurs absentmindedly as she runs her fingers down the page. “It’s called a nickname here.”

“Curious term.”  Again, her studied avoidance of the subject at hand makes him smile.  “So this is the revelation that had you scurrying across town in the middle of the night?”

“Of course not.”  She flashes him a look that is as much sheepish as it is annoyed.  “What I want to know is how the hell did this damned book know who we really were?”  She points to the picture of them dancing once again. “Apart from Gold, we were the only two people who knew what we really looked like. “  She draws back her hand, as if she’s suddenly wary of touching the pages. “Who the hell created this thing?”

“I’ve seriously no clue, love.”

She huffs out a sigh, but he knows she’s not angry with him, just frustrated.  “You weren’t in this book before.  I checked.”

This is a most intriguing piece of information, and he can’t resist pouncing on it. “Did you now?”

Even in the flickering candlelight, he sees the blush touch her cheeks.  “Shut up,” she shoots back, but there’s no heat in her words. “The other thing that I don’t get is that if you were from a land with magic, why weren’t you in here before?”

At last, a question he’s confident in answering. “From what your lad has told me about this book, I assumed it only tells the tales of those affected by Regina’s curse and sent to Storybrooke.”

She raises her eyebrows at him, her brow furrowing. “Remind me again why you didn’t get sent to Storybrooke?”

“The delightful Cora cast a protection spell that froze one little corner of the Enchanted Forest for twenty-eight years.”

“The delightful Cora, my ass,” she mutters, then gives him a sharp glance.  “Wait, you were frozen for twenty-eight years?”

“Surprisingly, it passed in the blink of an eye,” he tells her with the flourish of his hand, which earns him a smile.

“I guess you had to wait for the curse to be broken.”

“Aye.” He smiles at her. “Waiting for  _you_ , as it turns out.” The simple words seem to fluster her, and he quickly goes on, reaching out and touching the book resting in her lap. “Tell me, Swan.  What did you  _really_  want to talk about?”

“Okay, well, that’s not the only new picture.”  She flicks back one page to show him another colourful depiction from their recent adventure, and his mouth goes dry. It’s a rendering of Zelena’s portal, glowing with dark magic, and a cold shiver of remembrance dances down his spine.  It’s like gazing upon a parchment manifestation of his nightmares. “You didn’t fall into the portal like I did,” she says, her gaze lifting to meet his. “You deliberately let go and let it take you.”

He gives her a wary look, suddenly feeling as though he’s swimming amongst a field of man-o-war jellyfish. “Does that matter?”

“Of course it does.” Her bright gaze narrows. “I thought you’d been sucked in like I had.”

“Well, love, technically I was.”

“Not according to the book.”  She taps her finger on the text on the opposite page. “According to the book, Killian Jones was so devoted to Emma Swan that he refused to leave her side, even if it meant following her to the ends of the earth and time itself.”

He feels his face grow warm. Perhaps he should have continued with his tale of returning to Neverland, he thinks wryly. It might have made him feel less uncomfortable. “It was the right thing to do.”

“And here it says that Killian Jones couldn’t bear to lose his true love again, not after such a long and harrowing quest to find her and return her to her true family.”  She’s barely looking at the book now, and he can’t help noticing that she appears to have memorised the passages that sent her rushing to him in the middle of the night. “Apparently he had sworn an oath to himself that he would bring her home, no matter what the cost to himself.”

Heat creeps up the back of his neck.  He knows very well what he’s done and why he’d done it, of course, but hearing the plain and simple truth spoken aloud in Emma’s soft voice makes it all sound rather absurd.  “You sound as though you’re angry with me, love.”

“I’m not.”  She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, her fingers still tapping on the picture of Zelena’s time portal.  “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d let go on purpose?”  Behind her calm words, he hears the voice of the girl who has been left behind and forgotten far too many times in her short life, and the thought that it didn’t occur to her that he might have come after her of his own free, after everything that’s happened between them, is both astounding and heartbreaking.

There are so many things he wishes to tell her, how he’d do it all again in a heartbeat, but instead he opts for the simple truth. “It didn’t occur to me.”

Her answering smile brightens her whole face.  “Of course it didn’t.”  Curling her arm through his, she rests her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. “That damned book is getting to me.  I mean, it doesn’t just tell the story of what happened in the past, it gets inside people’s heads and takes their thoughts and feelings and puts them on its page for all the world to see.  Who the hell is making that happen?”

Turning his head, he brushes the curve of her ear with his lips. “Perhaps some mysteries are never meant to be explained, Swan.” 

She glances at him quickly, then hesitates, and his heart gives an odd little lurch.  Whatever is troubling her, it involves himself.  When she takes a deep breath, he feels as though she’s drawing air into his own lungs. “How can people know what’s in their heart is real when this book  _tells_ them what and who their happy ending is supposed to be?”

A wave of tenderness sweeps over him, and he smooths his palm over her cheek. “Pretty words and pictures cannot force someone to feel something is not already in their heart.” He touches his mouth to hers in a soft kiss, then pulls back, letting her see the truth in his eyes. “What I feel for you, Swan, rest assured it’s of my own free will.” 

Her lovely mouth turns downwards (not exactly the reaction for which he’d been hoping, if he’s entirely honest) and her gaze slides away, coming to rest on the shadows on the wall once more.  Shifting on the bed, he lifts his hand to touch her face, smoothing back her tousled hair. “What is it that’s truly troubling you?”

“This thing mentions  _your_ feelings.  Like, a  _lot_.”  She nods at the book in her lap. “But there’s nothingin there about how _I_  feel.”  She suddenly looks as though she’d rather slay another dragon than continue, but then he sees her gathering up her courage, her chin lifting. “About you, I mean.”

“Perhaps it’s waiting for you to decide, love.”

He means it as a teasing joke, something to put her at ease, but her face seems to crumple at his words. “Oh, but I-” Again she stops, then looks at him with glittering, imploring eyes. “Maybe it knows I’m not good at this kind of thing.”  Her voice is small and quiet, and it almost breaks his heart. “Maybe it knows the Saviour doesn’t get a happy ending.”

“If anyone deserves a happy ending, love, it’s you.”  Finally, he understands what she’s been trying to tell him.  She’s afraid.  She’s afraid that the book has seen inside her heart and found her wanting, as though the thoughts and feelings it saw within her weren’t worthy of being recorded for the ages. “You  _are_ good at this kind of thing, Swan. Take it from someone who knows.”

Taking her hand in his, he presses it over his heart, letting her feel its rapid beat after even the most chaste of kisses. “I know you care for me, love. Whatever you feel in your heart, for me and your family, it doesn’t need to be etched in that bloody book for it to be true.”  He kisses her again, a more lingering kiss this time, and again he’s the one to pull back first.  “Tell me something. Are you happy to be here with me?”

Her mouth trembles in a hopeful smile that makes his heart clench in the very best way.  “Yes.”

“Then that’s enough for me.”

Her eyes light up. “You know, when we first met, I would have never pegged you for an eternal optimist.”

“You know me, Swan.” He ducks his head, letting her see his answering smile. “I’m a man who can travel a long way on a little hope.”

Smiling, she closes the book, hefting it onto the nightstand beside the bed. As she slides underneath the covers beside him, long legs tangling with his, she sighs against his shoulder.  “Speaking of hope, I guess it’s too much to think that we might get to sleep late tomorrow?”

“We  _are_  in Storybrooke, love.”  He strokes his fingertips down her back, and she burrows closer into his side.  “It stands to reason that trouble is already brewing somewhere.”

“I know you’re right,” she tells him with a yawn that distorts her voice, making him smile, “but right now I’m too tired to care.”

“Go to sleep, Swan.”  He closes his eyes, his smiling growing when he feels the now familiar ripple of magic in the air, the room once again returning to darkness.  “Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”   They’re the same words he’d said to Robin only hours earlier (Gods, had it only been hours?) and he spares a momentary pang of sympathy for the other man’s situation.  Now there’s a prime example of trouble brewing and no mistake about it.

Emma’s breathing soon slows to a soft, deep rhythm, a gentle soothing sound that lulls him to his rest, and the last thing he knows the smell of beeswax and the warmth of her skin pressed against his.

~*~

The buzzing of her portable telephone wakes them the next morning.  It must still be early, for he hears Emma’s whispered, “Sorry,” then an apologetic brush of her fingertips on his shoulder as she clambers out of bed.  “Don’t get up.”

A moment later, as he’s rubbing a palm over his bleary eyes, she’s climbing back under the covers beside him, her telephone clutched in her hand as she reads to him from the small screen.  “Text from Henry.”  Her whole face softens as she speaks her son’s name.  “It seems that Regina didn’t go to bed last night but stayed up cooking.  Apparently the whole kitchen is now filled enough food to feed the whole town and she’s still going strong and it’s a little weird but he’s fine.” 

“I do hope that no apples were involved.”

“God.”  Closing her eyes, she bows her head as if in defeat.  “This is going to be messy, isn’t it?”

“Quite possibly, love, but you won’t have to navigate the stormy seas of Regina’s wrath alone.”

Lifting her head, she looks at him with wide eyes, and he remembers all the instances where she found it difficult to believe he had no plans to leave her side.  This morning is a brand new day, however, and on this occasion she leans towards him, closing the distance between them with a delicious intent. 

Unsurprisingly, the sleepy kiss turns into something quite different, an urgent tangle of limbs and hands and mouths ( _maybe you can wear the hook next time_ , she whispers into his ear at a crucial moment, and it’s all he can do not to peak there and then) that leaves them both breathless and grinning like fools.  Afterwards, he lies in bed, watching the undulation of her hips as she strolls across the room to the water closet clad in nothing more than the white undershirt he’d worn the night before.  There may be better ways for a man to start his day, he muses, but at this moment he cannot think of a single one.

When she remerges, she’s running her hands through her hair and wiping a delicate finger under each eye with a slight grimace. “You know, while we’re on the subject of ancient history, exactly how long does the effect of living in Neverland last? I mean, are you going to look like  _that_ forever,” she gestures towards his face almost accusingly, “while I get grey hair and wrinkles?”

The unspoken ramifications of her playful complaint aren’t lost on him, but he does his best to keep his tone light. “I didn’t realise you were thinking that far ahead, Swan.”

As he watches, a pink tinge creeps over her face, her dark lashes fluttering nervously.  “I wasn’t,” she shoots back. “I was just curious.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “Of course.”

Her portable telephone buzzes loudly once more and she snatches it up with an amusing air of relief.  This time, she swipes her thumb across the small screen and puts it to her ear.  “David? What’s up?”  As he watches, a frown appears between her eyebrows. “ _Seriously_?”

His heart sinks. It seems that hoping for even a day of peace was indeed too much to ask.  “Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”  She listens for another few seconds, then rolls her eyes at him. “Yes,  _we._ ”  Another pause.  “I’ll tell him. See you soon.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, smiling at her reaction to his utter lack of clothing. “Well, I guess we won’t be keeping our dalliance a secret then.”

She makes a familiar gesture he’s seen many times before, that of sliding her phone into her back pocket, then looks down at her bare legs with surprise, as if she’d forgotten about her state of undress.  “I guess not.”

He lets out his breath, because he’s been staring at those very same bare legs and he suspects they need to leave this room sooner rather than later, or else they will be very late in joining her parents. “Tell me, love, what bad tidings did the Prince convey?”

Dropping her phone onto the end of the bed, she runs her hands through her hair once more, then looks towards the window, her gaze narrowing. “Apparently there’s something seriously weird happening with the weather, and it’s not climate change.”

He wonders if he’ll ever become accustomed to this realm’s idioms. “Climate change?”

“I’ll explain that one later.” Striding to the window, she pulls back the heavy curtains.  “What the hell?” She turns back to where he’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, her face a picture of both confusion and dread. “I think the pancakes are going to have to wait.”

He comes to join her at the window, immediately understanding her sudden change in mood. The world outside is pure, stark white, the landscape barely recognisable. He touches the glass, then swiftly jerks his hand back.  The windowpane is icy, almost burning his fingertips.  “Why aren’t we feeling the temperature change inside the room? Granny’s heating system is perfectly adequate, but this is far beyond its capabilities.” Even as he speaks, he already knows the answer, and it appears Emma does as well.

“Magic,” she says flatly, echoing his own thoughts, and he huffs out a loud breath of resignation.

“I’m afraid you’re right, love.”  He breathes on the cold glass, and it turns to fog before his eyes.  “Am I to assume we will be trudging through some frozen woodlands or forest today?”

“Probably.”  She looks him up and down, a delightful blush tinging her cheeks as her gaze sweeps over his naked form, as though she hasn’t spent half the night ravishing him. “Do you even own a scarf?”

He gives her the most innocuous smile he can muster. “Perhaps there’s one in the bag your father gave me.”

She laughs, and the sound makes his feet feel as though they’ve parted company with the ground. “Well, you’d better find  _something_ , because David said to tell you, and I quote, that it’s bloody freezing out there.”

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Was that all he asked you to tell me?”

“Well-” Pursing her lips, she starts to gather up her scattered clothing, making him wait until she’s clutching her jeans and shirt before she puts him out of his misery.  “He did say something about having a private chat with you, but it would have to wait until we’d found out more about what’s going on with all that ice.”

Grinning, he runs his palm along his jawline - sometimes he thinks he can still feel the imprint of the Prince’s knuckles there - before he starts to gather his own clothing. “Saved by the inclement weather.”

“Trust me, it’s my mother you need to charm.” Emma shoots back with a snort of laughter. “Prince Charming is  _already_ on your side from what I can tell.”

“Well, I did say that he and Prince Charles were mates.”

She only laughs again, too distracted by her rummaging through the satchel said Prince had given him.  Eventually, she tosses a black woollen cap at him, and he barely manages to pull his shirt over his head before it hits him in the chest.  “I know it’s not exactly pirate chic, but you’ll be glad of it, trust me.”   When he looks at it doubtfully, she shakes her head at him.  “Come on.  At least it’s black?”

Ten minutes later (delayed only by her insisting on helping him put on his brace and hook, something that could have caused a much longer delay if he’d been a weaker man) they’re washed and dressed and, he’s loathe to admit, ready for battle.   Finally, knowing it’s time to face the inevitable intrusion of the world outside his bedchamber door, he looks at her.

“Shall we?”

“Hang on.” She takes the woollen cap from his hand and reaches up to tug it onto his head, pulling it down until it’s a match for hers.  Still gripping it by its edges, she meets his gaze steadily, her face barely a breath away from his.  “What I said before, when we were trapped in Gold’s vault?”  His heart does an odd little lurch, but he says nothing, waiting. Hoping. “When I said I wanted this to work, that I wanted to stop running?” Her pale throat works as she swallows, then she smiles, a tremulous curving of her lips that makes his mouth burn with the urge to kiss her. “I wasn’t just talking about my family.”

Somehow, he manages not to touch his mouth to hers. “I know.”

Her whole face softens, then she brushes her knuckles against his cheeks, cocking an eyebrow at the picture he makes in his borrowed cap.  “You cut quite a figure in that hat, Captain.”

They are once again poised to stride out in search of something or someone that could very well kill them all, but he’s happier than he’s been in a very long time. “You ready, Swan?”

“Yep.”  Swaddled in her heavy coat and cap, her last act is to pick up Henry’s book and tuck it under her arm.  “Let’s go see who the bad guy is this time.”

“After you, love.” He opens the door with a gallant flourish. “And once we’ve dealt with the bad guy, as you so succinctly put it, perhaps we could have those pancakes?”

She dimples at him as they reach the top of the stairs.  “Are you still buying?”

“A gentleman never breaks a promise, love.” 

The smile she gives him makes him feel as though he could vanquish a dozen villains with a single hook. “Good.”

 

~*~

 

It takes them almost half an hour to reach the loft.

She holds his hand every step of the way.

 

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

~*~

 

Studying her reflection in the small mirror above the sink in what Killian insists on calling the water closet, Emma smiles at herself.

It’s seven o’clock in the morning and she should look all kinds of hell, but she doesn’t.  Okay, so maybe she’s had better hair days, but her eyes are glowing (especially now that she’s washed off yesterday’s mascara) and she doesn’t seem to be able to stop smiling.

She should  _feel_ like all kinds of hell too.  Between the time spent in the Enchanted Forest and getting very little sleep last night ( _God,_  last night), she should feel like death warmed up.  She doesn’t, though, not this morning.  This morning she feels as though she could take on a whole school of malicious mermaids and send them all screeching to the cannery without breaking a sweat.

Maybe it’s because when she’d actually slept, she’d slept well, which had surprised her.  It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with anyone for longer than an hour or so, she’d been curious as to whether they’d spend the night kicking and niggling at each other over blankets and pillow space.  But they hadn’t, and just like so many things when it came to Killian Jones, that fact that they seemed to be perfect sleeping companions (on top of everything else) was both a relief and a worry.

She’s glad she doesn’t look like a woman who’s had little sleep and jumped through a couple of time portals, because the man she’s left lounging in bed looks as though he’d be able to do a photo shoot for a beefcake bed linen advert at a moment’s notice.  He’s almost three hundred years older than her (the age gap is almost as surreal as the fact that she’s just slept with Captain freaking Hook) but she knows for a fact that there is not one grey hair on that head of his.  It doesn’t seem fair, but she’s not about to complain, not when she now also knows for a fact that a magically prolonged lifespan can translate into a serious set of skills in the bedroom.

Even as she cleans her teeth (borrowing his toothbrush again) she can feel herself blushing, because  _holy fuck,_ last night.  The way he’d taken such care with her, how she’d felt when he was finally buried deep inside her, the way he’d whispered her name when he’d come, as though he’d been praying to some unknown distant deity.  And then later, as they’d lain shrouded in darkness, his head between her legs, his mouth on her, making her feel as though she was in freefall, spiralling out of the control in the best possible way.

And then there was this morning’s effort.

God.  This morning had been quite the eye-opener. She’d only meant to kiss him (okay, so maybe she wouldn’t swear to that in a court of law) but things had gotten out of hand very quickly, which was absolutely fine with her, but then they’d gotten even more out of hand, so to speak.  One moment they’d been getting into a wonderfully slow, steady rhythm, and then she’d stroked his left wrist and told him maybe he could wear the hook next time.  Suddenly she’d been on her back and they hadn’t been making love but  _fucking_ , hard and fast and breathless and so, so good.  She’s still sore in places she hasn’t sore in an embarrassing long time, but remembering now how he’d just  _taken_ her sends a ripple of heat curling between her legs.

Maybe he’d been right, she thinks, remembering the giddy thrill she’d felt as she’d shamelessly flirted with his past self.  Maybe she does have a little pirate in her, after all. (oh, and she’s  _so_ not touching on that particular double entendré of his, because there is no point giving him even more ammunition.)

The amazing sex isn’t the reason why she’s loitering in here, though, trying to get a grip on herself.  It’s everything. In times of emotional upheaval, she takes refuge in the bathroom.  It’s what she does. She’d done it the last time her life had been completely turned upside down, too, only that day it had been Henry on her doorstep, telling her that she was his mother. She just needs some space, a few moments to herself, because she knows now – without a single doubt – that Killian loves her enough to sacrifice his home and safety and would willingly fall into a time portal to save her. The last person who’d jumped into a portal to keep her safe was her mother, and the realisation that she has that kind of devotion in her life is a little overwhelming. 

Emma stares at her reflection. She’s in the book now, but so is Killian, co-starring in the story of how Killian Jones brought his true love Emma Swan home to her family and made her believe in herself.  Helped her realise that she’d already found her home.  Helped her believe in her magic again.  She’s his True Love, but whether or not he’s  _hers_  is apparently a story that’s yet to be written, if Henry’s book is to be believed.

Killian had told her that what she felt in her heart didn’t need to be written in  _that bloody book_  to make it real, and she wants so much to believe that. She’s no closer to knowing who the hell is behind that book, but she knows one thing.  Her life might be less complicated if she hadn’t fallen for Captain Hook, but the thought of a life without him makes her blood run cold. So why the hell is she still hiding out and quietly panicking in Granny’s (or was it Regina’s?) interpretation of an en suite when she could already be back in bed with him?

Killian watches her from beneath those impossibly black eyelashes as she walks towards the bed, his mouth curved in a lazy smile, and the familiar flutter quivers through her belly.  She runs her hands through her hair (his gaze instantly drops to the vicinity of her thighs, a sure sign that her borrowed shirt is riding up an indecent amount) and checks one last time for smudged mascara with a sweep of her fingers.  It really doesn’t seem fair that someone almost three centuries older than her can look so good after what they’ve just been through, and she can’t resist the urge to mention it.

“You know, while we’re on the subject of ancient history,” she starts, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation, “exactly how long does the effect of living in Neverland last?”  He’s sitting up in bed now, and she tries and fails not to stare at his bare, smooth shoulders and leanly muscled arms.  “I mean, are you going to look like  _that_ forever,” she points at his ridiculously handsome face that looks like it’s not a day over thirty, “while I get grey hair and wrinkles?”

She really   _does_  want to know the answer, but it’s only when one dark eyebrow arches and a gleam comes into his eyes that she realises how much of a Freudian slip she’s just made. “I didn’t realise you were thinking that far ahead, Swan.”

 _Crap._ “I wasn’t,” is all she can muster, and she wonders what happened to the woman who’s usually so good with a snappy comeback. Apparently indulging in several bouts of amazing sex  _can_ slow down your mental reflexes. “I was just curious.”

He gives her a look that clearly states he’s not buying it.  “Of course.”

Her face grows warm as she fights the urge to give him a good whack in the arm.  When her phone rings, she literally pounces on it, turning her back on Killian’s resultant smirk.   _Damn him._ “David?”

“We hadn’t heard from you, so I’m guessing you haven’t looked outside this morning?”

Her father’s tone is deliberately calm which, of course, makes her pulse start racing, because that never means anything good. “What’s up?”

“We’re not panicking just yet, but the whole town has frozen over. Oh, and the harbour too.”

Emma swallows down a sigh, suddenly very sorry she answered the phone, because there is no way in hell that the harbour would freeze due to natural causes, not at this time of year.  _“_ _Seriously_ _?”_

“Can you make your way home carefully? We need to work out a plan of action.”

 _Home._ If it weren’t for the cool swoop of anxiety doing loops through her stomach, the word would make her smile.  “Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“We?  Do you mean, uh-?”

In the end, it’s her father’s flustered confusion (or lack thereof, to be more accurate) that has her smiling. “Yes,  _we,_ ” she answers cheerfully, rolling her eyes at the man lounging in the bed, who flashes back a grin almost as indecent as what’s beneath those rumpled bedcovers.

There is a tiny, very telling silence, then David clears his throat. “Well, tell Killian that it’s bloody freezing out there so maybe he should actually button up his shirt for once. Oh, and when this latest nonsense is dealt with, he and I will be having a quiet word about his intentions towards my daughter.”

She could save them all a lot of time and tell David right now exactly what Killian’s intentions are, but she suspects that won’t save any trouble. Pretty much the opposite, in fact. “I’ll tell him. See you soon.”

“Well,” Killian announces as he flings back the covers and swings his bare legs over the side of the bed, giving her an eyeful of naked pirate. “I guess we won’t be keeping our dalliance a secret then.”

Tearing her gaze away from him with an effort (she’s not a shallow woman but seriously, if she’d had any idea of what he’d been hiding under all those layers of leather), she starts to tuck her phone into her back pocket, then remembers that she has no pants, let alone a pocket.  Shaking her head at herself, she tries not to think of the conversation that’s currently taking place at the loft.  “I guess not.”

Killian’s bright gaze travels over the length of her legs, then lifts to meet her eyes.  “Tell me, love, what bad tidings did the Prince convey?”

She tosses the phone onto the bed, the question instantly jerking her away from the delicious thrum of tension humming between them and bringing her back to the reality of living in Storybrooke. She scowls at the window, dreading what they’re about to see outside.  “Apparently there’s something seriously weird happening with the weather, and it’s not climate change.”

He frowns. “Climate change?”

If ever there was a can of worms she doesn’t have time to open now, that would be it. “I’ll explain that one later,” she tells him as she walks across the room to yank back the heavy curtains. Instantly, her field of vision is filled with a blinding white, making her blink. David  _had_ warned her, but she was hoping he’d been exaggerating. “What the hell?”  She turns to Killian, who is still sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, still apparently immune to either modesty or the cool morning air. “I think the pancakes are going to have to wait.”

He’s beside her in a heartbeat, his shoulder brushing against hers as he stares through the window.  As she watches he touches some experimental fingertips to the glass then hurriedly yanks his hand way, leaving four perfect finger marks on the glass that quickly frost over. “Why aren’t we feeling the temperature change inside the room?” he murmurs, his frowning deepening. “Granny’s heating system is perfectly adequate, but this is far beyond its capabilities.”

There’s only one answer, and they both know it. “Magic.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, love.”  He puffs out a warm breath onto the glass, making it mist up.  It’s something Henry would do, Emma thinks, and the thought makes her smile.  “Am I to assume we will be trudging through some frozen woodlands or forest today?”

He sounds almost cheerful at the thought, and she feels her spirits lift, just as they always do when he’s determined to make the best of things.  “Probably.”   She turns away from the frosted window, and is once again reminded that he’s not wearing a stitch, let alone something suitable to the conditions outside.  God, they need to get out of this room before she does something she won’t regret, like pushing him backwards onto the bed and climbing aboard. “Do you even own a scarf?”

His guileless smile is worthy of an award, maybe even two. “Perhaps there’s one in the bag your father gave me.”

She can’t help laughing (he might be a smartass, but he’s a very entertaining one) and his smile widens, his eyes lighting up with glee. “Well, you’d better find  _something_ ,” she tells him with a pointed look at the bag in question, “because David said to tell you, and I quote, that it’s bloody freezing out there.”

He looks at her, the arch of one well-shaped eyebrow practically radiating scepticism. “Was that all he asked you to tell me?”

“Well-”  Aware that he’s hanging on her every word - he wants to be on good terms with her parents so much, and the thought makes her chest tighten - she takes her sweet time about answering, letting him sweat while she picks up her clothes (how did her bra get  _there_?) from the floor.  Finally, once she’s managed to retrieve everything, she offers him a mischievous smile. “He did say something about having a private chat with you, but it would have to wait until we’d found out more about what’s going on with all that ice.”

He grins, rubbing his hand against his jaw as if preparing himself for the worst, then starts to collect his own clothes.  Unlike hers, which had been scattered around the room, his shirt and pants are neatly folded on top of the tall dresser, his coat hanging on a hook behind the door. “Saved by the inclement weather.”

“Trust me, it’s my mother you need to charm,” she informs him with a chuckle, deciding she actually can’t wait to see how her mother approaches this new development. “Prince Charming is  _already_ on your side from what I can tell.”

“Well, I did say that he and Prince Charles were mates.”

Yet another piece of the puzzle that is her father’s new-found acceptance of Killian, Emma thinks with a smile as she searches through the bag of clothes and other random items.  Whatever bonding he and Prince Charles did in the Enchanted Forest, it was enough to convince David not to punch first and ask questions later.  Making a mental note to ask her father exactly what had gone on while she’d been a guest in Regina’s dungeon, she grins as she finds exactly the right thing in the bottom of the gym bag.  Now all she has to do is convince Captain Hook to wear a knitted cap that his first mate Smee might envy.

Straightening up, she’s a little disappointed to find that Killian’s already half-dressed, but it’s not a total loss.  She takes a few seconds to admire the flat expanse of his bare stomach (her palms itch to smooth down the line of dark hair that vanishes into the low slung waist of his trousers) as he pulls his flowing black shirt over his head.  When the shirt ruins the view, she tosses the beanie across the room at him.   He catches it against his chest, then holds it up for examination, a faint flicker of doubt dancing across his face.

“I know it’s not exactly pirate chic, but you’ll be glad of it, trust me.”  He looks at her, then looks at the beanie again, and she’s almost expecting him to pout.  “Come on.  At least it’s black?”

“If the lady insists,” he replies with a smile, then promptly tosses it onto the bed before vanishing into the small washroom.  He reappears five minutes later, smelling of toothpaste and Granny’s lemon soap (just as she does) cheerfully ignoring the beanie while he shrugs into his vest and grabs his boots from the corner of the room, sitting on the bed to tug them on one-handed with practiced ease. 

She finds herself watching him, quietly amazed at the grace of his movements, the way he’s adapted to the loss of his hand. The intimacy of dressing is almost as tangible as undressing, Emma realises, and it’s something she hasn’t experienced for a very long time.  She pulls on her clothes quickly (wearing yesterday’s underwear is never her idea of fun, but she consoles herself with the thought of the hot shower and clean clothes waiting for her at the loft) and by the time Killian reaches for his wrist brace, she’s dressed and can’t resist the urge to dart across the room.  Just to help, of course.

He glances down at the way she’s brushing her fingertips down his left forearm, then lifts his head, his eyes meeting hers with an almost audible  _click._  “Something I can help you with, Swan?”

His voice is soft and low and slides over every inch of her body as surely as if he was touching her. She swallows hard, reminding herself that she promised her father that they’d join them as soon as possible.  “I just wanted to see how you put it on.”

His jaw clenches, and she feels the sudden urge to kiss -  _bite, she wants to bite him –_ the tiny fluttering muscle. This close to him, she can feel the heat of him, the scent of mint and lemon and leather and warm male skin making her mouth go dry.  His gaze drops, skimming over the swell of her breasts, and she knows he’s studying the black lace of her bra, which is clearly visible through the knit of her white sweater.  After what feels like an eternity, his gaze lifts to meet hers again.  “Have at it, love.”  He rolls back the frilled cuff of his shirt, offering her his left wrist without ceremony, and tenderness squeezes her heart like a closed fist. 

He murmurs directions to her as she works, telling her which straps buckle where. His head is bowed close to hers, his breath warm against her cheek as he speaks, and it’s an effort to keep her hands steady.  Once the brace is secure, he picks up his hook in his right hand and offers it to her. “The finishing touch, so to speak.”

She feels her eyes widen, but takes it from his hand, letting it dangle from one index finger.  His gaze locks with hers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and she knows he feels it too, this thick pull of desire rippling between them.  “Show me?”

He mutters something beneath his breath that wouldn’t have been out of place in the tavern in which they’d found his past self, then his fingers close over hers, guiding her hand to the brace.  “Push it into there,” he murmurs, his voice again sliding over her skin like molten silk. “Then twist to lock it into place.”

The world outside this room might be frozen over, Emma thinks with faint desperation, but she’s burning up, every hair on her body standing on end, her breasts tightening with every passing second that he’s so close without actually touching her.  She does as he instructs, and the loud click as his hook locks into place seems to break the spell.  Letting out her breath, she leans back, putting some space between them as she gives his left wrist a reassuring pat.  “You’re all set.”

He looks amused and aroused in equal parts, his smile at odds with the hunger burning in his eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Swan.”

She laughs, and feels some of the tension drain away.  “Liar.”  He makes a face, and she can suddenly breathe again.  _Jesus, is it going to be like this all the time?_

They spend another few minutes collecting their belongings, and finally he gestures towards the door, David’s woollen cap dangling from his fingers.  “Shall we?”

“Hang on.”  She has the feeling he’s just humouring her and has no intention of wearing the damned thing, but she’s not going to let him freeze on account of some weird pirate dress code.  Taking the beanie from his hand, she stands on tiptoe and pulls it gently onto his head, tucking his silky hair underneath and making sure his ears are covered.  They’re almost nose to nose, his eyes very blue as he watches her, an indulgent smile curving his mouth, and she suddenly needs him to know what’s truly in her heart.

“What I said before, when we were trapped in Gold’s vault?”  He blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering, but he doesn’t say a word, letting her take the lead, just as he always does. “When I said I wanted this to work, that I wanted to stop running?” She hesitates, feeling as though she’s skating too close to the edge of everything that’s terrified her for so long, then she jumps, knowing he’ll catch her if she falls.  “I wasn’t just talking about my family.”

His whole body seems to relax, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gives her a smile that warms her right down to her toes, just as he had that terrible day when they’d had mere seconds to say goodbye at the town line. “I know.”

Giving his hat one last tug, she rubs the back of her knuckles against his cheekbones, marvelling once again at the difference between the Captain Hook of fiction and the one standing in front of her.  He’s a beautiful man, and now she knows it’s not just on the surface, and that’s not something you find every day.  Trust her, she knows.  “You cut quite the figure in that hat, Captain.”

He grins, the memory of their shared adventure dancing in his eyes. His gaze avidly searches her face and, whatever it is that he sees there, it makes him smile even more. “You ready, Swan?”

“Yep.”  She grabs Henry’s book, hugging it close to her chest. Her mother had told her once that she’d given the book to Henry to give him hope. She never thought she’d say it, but it seems that brand of hope works on more than one generation. “Let’s go see who the bad guy is this time.”

“After you, love.” He pulls open the door and waves her through it with one of those old world hand gestures that should look foppish and ridiculous but, of course, doesn’t. “And once we’ve dealt with the bad guy, as you so succinctly put it, perhaps we could have those pancakes?”

Her stomach growls at the thought. “Are you still buying?”

She half-expects a teasing comeback, but instead he simply smiles. “A gentleman never breaks a promise, love.”

Maybe one day he’ll stop taking her by surprise in the most pleasant of ways, but today is definitely not that day.  “Good.”

He falls silent as they make their way down the stairs, darting admiring glances at her every time he thinks she’s not looking.  She’s pretty sure he’s thinking about last night (maybe he’s thinking about this morning too), and she knows how he feels.  She sure as hell can’t look at him without thinking of all the things they’ve done to each other over the course of the few hours.  As they reach the bottom of the stairs, she accidentally brushes her right hand against his hook, and the feel of the cool steel on her skin makes her stomach clench.  _Maybe next time you can wear the hook._ Despite the chill that greets them in the small reception area, she feels her face grow hot. 

If she’d hoped sleeping with him would stop her body from going off like a firecracker every time he touched her, she’s out of luck.  He’d once promised her some fun, and God, now that she’s had a taste of him, she wants to spend a week in that bed finding out just how much fun he can be.

Right now, though, they’re heading off to face who-the-hell-knows-what, with her rugged up like a polar explorer and Killian wearing one of her father’s old beanies like he just stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. Maybe this should all feel very surreal, but instead it feels right.  It feels normal. The morning after the night she slept with  _Captain Hook_  feels normal, for God’s sake, and that alone should freak her out, and maybe it does a little, but then the man himself flashes her a quick smile, his eyes glowing with the same quiet satisfaction that’s making her whole body hum, and the feeling fades.

Having said that, though, it’s going to be a while before she’s going to be able to watch any Peter Pan movies again without squirming.

They’re halfway across the small reception area when the smell of freshly brewed coffee teases her nose.  She hesitates, torn between the need for something hot and possibly caffeinated before they freeze their collective butts off and the need to reach her parents as soon as possible. “God, that coffee smells good.”  She looks at him. “I know I said we didn’t have time for pancakes, but-”

Killian grins. “The town’s been turned to ice, love. I’d wager we’d be forgiven for acquiring a hot beverage before we set out.”

“A man after my own heart.”  One dark eyebrow arches in amusement at her choice of words, and she rolls her eyes. Who knew pirates could be so literal? “You know what I mean.”

The diner is deserted, but the lights are on and the owner is behind the counter.  She’s never been so glad to see Granny Lucas in her life.  “I don’t think you’ll get too many customers today.”

The older woman merely shrugs. “I’ve lived through worst. The pipes ain’t busted yet and I got a freezer full of food, so that’s something.”

Emma peers into the kitchen at the back of the diner. “Is Ruby working this morning?”

“Supposed to be, but you know her.”  In Granny’s hands, the espresso machine almost sounds annoyed, as though it’s channelling her mood.  “We might only live upstairs, but why be on time when you can be late?”

Emma really likes Ruby, but she’s glad that she doesn’t have to deal with  _that_  level of awkward this morning.  Maybe Ruby puts condoms in all the rooms, maybe she doesn’t.  Maybe she just thought she’d try a little matchmaking and stocked Killian’s room with a few extra supplies.  Either way, Emma’s grateful, both for the condoms  _and_ that she doesn’t have to actually fumble her way past Ruby’s wolfish powers of detection this morning.

Five minutes later, she’s in possession of two takeout coffees (Killian takes his black, and Emma feels faintly embarrassed that she’s only just learned this, considering how they’ve spent the last several hours) and she feels far more prepared for what lies ahead.  That is, until he opens the front door of the diner and she sees that her car is nothing more than a large white lump parked at the curb.  There’s at least two feet of snow and ice covering it, and there’s no way they’ll be able to dig it out without help. “Oh,  _hell no._ ”

“It appears the trudging will begin earlier than we expected.” Gently tugging her back into the relative warmth of the diner, Killian shuts the door once more.  Putting down his coffee on the nearest table, he relieves her of Henry’s book and deftly slips it into the satchel he’s wearing, and she’s struck with a sudden wave of déjà vu.  Hopefully, this outing won’t prove as complicated as the last time he carried that damned book around for her. “May I suggest we finish our coffee in situ, then?” Picking up his takeout cup, he lifts it to her in a resigned toast.  “Cheers, Swan.”

They make short work of their coffee, peering through the blinds at the frozen world outside while behind them Granny does whatever it is that Granny does at seven in the morning.  She takes a few minutes to send a text to Henry, letting him know that they’re on their way to the loft, and telling him that she loves him.  He sends a message back almost immediately, telling her that Regina has finally stopped baking and gone upstairs to her bedroom and he’s just reached another level on his game and what was with all the snow?  She hesitates, then decides if Regina hasn’t spoken to him about the strange weather, it might be best to be vague for now.  So she tells him that it’s probably tied up with the whole time portal thing and temporary, and to stay inside and keep warm.

“That your lad?”

She looks up with a start as she presses ‘send’.  “Yes, sorry.”  She gives him a rueful smile. “That’s the trouble with texting, you tend to zone out.”

He tilts his head, his mouth curved in a smile that she’s come to recognise as his ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll let you assume that I do,’ smile.   “He’ll be safe with Regina.”

“I know.”  She takes one last sip of coffee, draining the cup empty.  “When it comes to Regina, it’s  _my_ safety I’m worried about, to be honest.”

She’s joking (mostly), but he’s still quick to reassure her.  “Regina has no real quarter to feel maligned by your actions, Swan.  If anything, you’ve kept her from becoming the one who murdered Loxley’s wife.”

She looks down at her empty cup, distractedly flicking the lid with her thumb. “It makes sense when you put it like that.”

His fingertips brush hers as he takes the cup from her hand, and her skin tingles at his touch. “That’s because it’s the truth, love.”

He takes their empty takeout cups to the counter, where Granny offers him a grudging smile of thanks.  “You staying another week, Captain?  That room’s yours if you want it.”

To his credit and Emma’s relief, he doesn’t glance in her direction or mention the fact that a larger room might be more suitable. She might be (barely) resigned to her parents knowing where she spent last night, but she doesn’t need the whole town to know Captain Hook probably won’t be sleeping alone this week. “I’m not planning on departing your fine town anytime soon, milady, so that would be an ideal proposition.”

Granny’s eyeroll is truly impressive. “You can’t just say  _yes_  like a normal person?”

Killian smirks, and Emma finds herself biting the inside of her mouth as she tugs on her gloves to stop herself from doing the same.  “And where would the fun be in that, dear lady?”

Stepping outside is like suddenly finding themselves on a freaking frozen tundra.  “Holy shit.”

Killian’s eyes are wide as he looks up and down the street, and for once she thinks he might actually be lost for words. “Well said, love.”

Their breath hangs in the air like tiny frozen clouds, and each word is an effort, as though she’s trying to talk through a snowball in the face. “This is nuts.”

“Well, as the Widow Lucas just reminded us, we’ve lived through worse.”  He frowns at the pavement beneath their feet, which is an almost blinding white, then flashes her a reassuring smile. “The secret will be to tread carefully.”

Emma gives him a hard stare. She might be falling in love with him (again, nothing she wants to swear on in a court of law just yet), but that doesn’t mean he gets a free pass when it comes to stating the obvious. “Gosh, you think?”

Grinning, he takes her hand in his.  “Take it from an old sailor, Swan.”  His gloved hand tightens around hers, pulling it through the crook of his arm. “Just think of the ground as the slippery deck of a ship.”

Huddling closer against his side (she truly has no idea how he stays so warm, the man must have the most incredible internal combustion system), she takes her first tentative step onto the icy concrete. “You’re saying I need to find my sea legs?”

His smile lights up his eyes as he squeezes her arm.  “Exactly.”

Despite the talk of sea legs and the fact that there is no wind at all (which is a little spooky in itself), they have to walk slowly to make sure they stay upright, and it takes almost half an hour for them to cover the short distance to her parent’s place.  They don’t waste too much energy on conversation, but the silence between them is a comfortable one, and yes, he’s still darting those little glances at her. That’s more than okay, though, because she’s doing the same.  They seem to be the only townsfolk foolish enough to brave the elements, and she can’t help thinking of the warm bed they’ve left behind and, more distractingly, the hours they spent in it.  She hefts a wistful sigh, and feels his hand gently squeeze her arm.

“You alright there, Swan?”  The knowing gleam in his eyes might make her blush if her blood wasn’t too busy trying to keep her from getting frostbite.  “Shall I warm you up?”

“Right now?” She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s grinning. “Tempting, but I think this weather’s too cold for even your naked pirate ass,  _mate._ ”

His quiet laughter mingles with the noise of icy crunching loudly beneath the soles of their boots, but it’s the only sound in an eerily quiet atmosphere that has an anxious knot forming in the pit of her stomach, and she’s very glad she’s not making this trek alone.

Finally, he pushes open the familiar wooden gate, gesturing for her to go first, and Emma has to smile.  “Always so polite.”

He smirks, his eyes impossibly blue against the stark white backdrop surrounding them. “Only when the occasion calls for it, love.”

 The path is narrow, so she lets go of his arm and his hand so they can walk single-file.  Of  _course_ , that’s when she slips. 

 The heel of her boot gives way on a particularly glassy patch on the narrow cobbled path, and in an instant both of her feet are slipping out from under her.  She yelps loudly, clutching at nothing, then clutching at Killian’s arms as he’s suddenly there, doing his best to stop her from hitting the ground.  His arm is swiftly around her back, pulling her upwards with a jerk, using both his hand and his hook to steady her.  They rock together for a moment, clutching each other, breathing hard in the cold, thin air.  Finally, he chuckles, a deep rumbling in his chest she feels as well as hears.  “I seem to recall doing this dance with you once before, Swan.”

He’s talking about the trip wire at the top of the beanstalk, of course, and the difference between  _then_ and  _now_ would take her breath away if she had any to spare.  “I guess we’re even now then,” she teases, brushes the tip of her cold nose again his.  Once they’re inside the loft, they’ll have to tone it down, so she may as well seize this one last chance.  She slides her hands up to rest on his shoulders, then frowns, feeling something come loose at her left wrist.  “Shit, I think I’ve ripped my coat,” she starts, then stops, because what’s been ripped isn’t her coat sleeve or her glove but the chocolate brown bootlace she’s worn on her wrist since-

She pulls herself up, not wanting to go down that path, but it’s too late.  _Since Graham died,_ a tiny voice inside her head supplies, and her heart sinks.

Dropping her hands from Killian’s shoulders, she pulls back her sleeve and sees her tattoo properly for the first time in months.  The broken bootlace slithers into her right palm, and she closes her fingers over it tightly.  She thinks of the way he’d steadied her, his hand grabbing at her wrist, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “You broke it,” she says flatly, knowing she’s wrong to blame him but she needs to blame someone for the hollow ache that’s suddenly tightened her chest and he’s right here, and she can’t -

He touches her lightly on the shoulder, pulling her back to herself.  “I apologise, love, it must have happened when I seized your wrist to keep you from falling.” He looks both distressed and confused, and she instantly regrets her words. 

“It’s okay.”  Feeling embarrassed (and a whole heap of other things she doesn’t want to think about right now) she shoves the broken shoelace into her pocket.

He’s frowning, obviously trying to work out what’s he’s missing. “Perhaps we can repair the trinket-” 

“It’s not a trinket,” she shoots back, her words seeming to fly out of her mouth without her permission once again, then presses her lips together into a tight line, because he deserves better, much better.  “God, I’m sorry.”  Swallowing down the thick knot at the back of her throat, she takes his hand, letting her gaze lock with his.  “It’s just - I guess there’re a couple of stories I still have to tell you.”

“So it would seem.”  He squeezes her hand, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “For now, though, perhaps we should seek shelter with your parents?”  He releases her hand as they start to climb the stairs to the loft, the silence between them is not quite as comfortable as it was earlier, and the worst part is she doesn’t know how to even  _begin_  to explain.

Her parents’ front door is unlocked, and she pushes it open to find them in the kitchen, both of them wearing more layers than she’s ever seen them wear indoors.  The cot she and David had spent so much time assembling (seriously, she really should have just tried her magic on that damn thing) is tucked into the corner of the living space.  There’s a small heater plugged in a few feet away from the cot, providing some semblance of warmth to that corner, and Emma can’t resist the urge to sneak a peek at her new brother.  As she’d expected, he’s wearing just as many layers as her parents and is out like a light, blissfully unaware of the latest drama unfolding around him.  She manages to resist the urge to touch him (her mother wouldn’t thank her if she woke him up, she suspects) and turns to her parents. “Everyone okay?”

Her mother grimaces as she opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a container of milk. “Technically, yes.”

Emma wraps her arms around herself. It’s warmer in the loft than it is outside, but not by much. “God, what’s happened to your central heating?”

David is filling the kettle at the sink. “The joys of living in an older house.”

Killian shuts the front door behind him with a snap, shutting out the cold rush of air in the stairwell. “You should complain to the landlord, mate.”

Her parents exchange a weird glance, then David looks at the two of them in turn. “I would, but he’s on his honeymoon.”

Emma blinks. Behind her, she can only literally imagine that Killian’s ears have pricked up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Gold and Belle got married last night.”  Mary Margaret sounds as though she can’t decide whether to be pleased or shocked.  “Archie told us. He married them,” she adds, and Emma can stare at her.

 _This is way too much new information_ , she thinks. “Wait, Jiminy Cricket is a marriage celebrant?”

Her mother, as usual, looks amused by her daughter’s reaction to the real identities of the Storybrooke inhabitants.  “Apparently.” 

“I’m sorry, but  _that_ will never not be weird.”  She darts a glance at Killian, wanting to check his reaction to the notion of Gold getting married, but if the news has dredged up unpleasant memories, he’s not showing it. “Okay, so they got married, but it’s not as though they could have gone off to Niagara Falls.”   Three blank faces stare back at her, and she sighs. “Can people cross the town line now that you’re all back again?”

Her mother shakes her head.  “We don’t think so.”  She glances at her husband.  “There hasn’t really been time to try, not since everything with Zelena and her monkeys, though.”

“So it stands to reason that Gold and Belle must still be in Storybrooke somewhere, right?”

David leans one hip against the kitchen counter, arms folded. “I have to agree, but neither of them are answering their phones and Gold’s shop has a sign saying he’s closed on personal business for the rest of the week.”

“Well, you can’t live like this.” The heater is working at full capacity, but it’s still chilly in the loft. “Someone’s just going to have to go to his house and knock on the door.”   She glances at Killian, who has come to stand beside her.  He’s tugged the cap off his head, and his dark hair is dishevelled.  She starts to lift her hand, meaning to playfully smooth it down (or maybe mess it up a little more) then remembers where she is.  Her parents might be fans of public displays of affection, but Emma suspects that might have skipped a generation.    

His shoulder bumps gently against hers. “Are you asking for a volunteer, love?”

She gives him a rueful smile, relieved that they seem to be on steady ground again. “I don’t think you’d be the best choice. All that ancient history and all.”

Her mother clears her throat softly. “You guys want coffee?”

“That would be great.” Maybe Emma should feel awkward, knowing that her parents know that she’s spent the night with Killian, but right now she’s too hungry to care.  “We didn’t stop to have breakfast this morning,” she hints with a smile, and Mary Margaret laughs. 

“There’s plenty of food.”  Emma immediately makes for the refrigerator, but her mother apparently isn’t done. “Just don’t break the toaster.”

“That was one time!” Emma protests over the top of the open refrigerator door, and Killian flashes her a curious look. “It’s a long story,” she tells him, and he nods, casually leaning against the kitchen counter next to her father. 

“You seem to have a few of those this morning, love.”

She looks at him, torn between pulling him aside and explaining why she’d reacted to a broken bootlace the way she had and pretending that she doesn’t hear the faint hurt in his voice, because come on, her parents are  _right here_.  Out of the corner of her eye, she can see David watching them both in turn before he quickly occupies himself with the business of making coffee. 

“So, Regina called a few minutes before you arrived.”  Her mother starts helping Emma pull eggs and cheese out of the refrigerator. “She and Henry are fine.”

“Henry texted me this morning.”  Emma can feel Killian’s eyes on her as she starts slicing the loaf of dense sourdough bread.  Glancing up, she’s again struck by the sheer  _weirdness_  of the situation.  “Do you want scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich?” 

The question seems to take him by surprise, and she can’t help smiling at the sight of him giving his neck a nervous scratch.  (Seriously, she can’t wait to play poker with him.  She’s going to clean up, big time.)  “I have no preference, love. Whichever is most easily prepared will be most welcome, I assure you.”

Emma catches her mother staring at him, her expression faintly gobsmacked.  Her father, on the other hand, is just grinning to himself.  “Grilled cheese it is, then,” she announces, and returns the eggs to the refrigerator.   “What else did Regina say?”

Her parents exchange another quick glance, and Emma’s heart sinks.  “Was it  _that_ bad?”

“She said that it’s possible the two of you brought back something else besides Maid Marian when you came through the portal.”

Emma frowns, tapping the point of the bread knife on the chopping board as she sorts through her memories. “But that’s impossible,” she finally says as she reaches for the cheese, more for something for her suddenly restless hands to do than because she’s intent on breakfast.  “Killian was carrying Marian and he went first.”  She doesn’t want to think about the panicked despair she’d felt when Gold had appeared and stopped her from following, the abject terror that she was going to be left behind.  “And I definitely didn’t bring anything or anyone back with me.”

Killian lifts his right hand, his expression sheepish. “Not exactly, love.”  As soon as her eyes meet his, she knows exactly what he’s going to say.  _Shit._ “That bloody urn I took out of the cupboard,” he goes on, his tone more than a little apologetic, and she shakes her head.

“But it was nowhere near where the portal opened up.”

He shrugs, still looking embarrassed. “Magic is an unpredictable beast, Swan.”  After taking a coffee mug from David with a quick nod of thanks, he looks at her, his gaze steady, almost sombre. “And if the Dark One had locked that urn away in his most impenetrable vault, it stands to reason that that he had good cause to do so.”

Silence descends on them all for a few seconds, and eventually Mary Margaret takes the knife from Emma’s motionless hand, and gently pushes her away from the chopping board.  “I’ll finish making these. I think your father wanted to talk to you about checking on everyone, anyway.”

“We can’t be the only ones having heating problems,” David says as they move to sit at the small wooden table.  “I thought we could divide up the streets and between us check in with as many people as we can, just to make sure they’re okay.”

“That’s a grand idea, your Highness,” Killian tells him as he reaches for his coffee mug. “But is it safe to operate your vehicles in such conditions?”  He darts a glance across the table at Emma.   “Especially as your daughter’s vehicle is currently buried under several inches of ice.”

David looks at her with obvious dismay, and she just lifts her hands in resignation.  “Prince Charles speaks the truth, I’m afraid.”  Her father almost spits out his mouthful of coffee, but she regrets nothing.  If this situation is going to be awkward, she might has well have some fun with it.

“Prince Charles. I guess that’s something else we need to discuss once this snow problem is fixed,” David mumbles, and Killian beams at him. 

“Which part, Dave?”  His tone is beyond cheerful, and Emma has to quickly bury her laughter in her coffee cup. “When you swore that Princess Leia’s parents would be crazy not to approve of me, or when we teamed up with the shewolf to save your lovely daughter from Regina’s death squad?”

“Hey!” Emma taps his booted foot with hers beneath the table. “I saved myself, thanks very much.”

He turns to her, and the admiration glowing in his eyes makes her heart do a clumsy little jig. “Indeed you did, Swan.”  He holds her gaze with his for a long moment, then her father mumbles something under his breath, waving his hand through the air between them, as if trying to break some invisible connection.

“ _This_ is going to take some getting used to.” David mutters before he drains his coffee mug and pushes back his chair.  “My truck was undercover last night, so it should be okay.”  He very carefully doesn’t look at either of them. “I’ll just check that the snow tires are good to go.”

Emma leans back in her chair, doing her best to catch his eye. “If we do head out, we should visit Gold’s place first.”  

Her father nods, still not quite meeting her gaze. “Sounds good. I’ll be back shortly.”  After a detour to the crib in the corner (Emma can’t look away from the way he smiles at her new brother) he puts on another few layers and makes a hasty exit from the loft, the sound of his boots loud on the wooden stairs.  Emma looks at Killian, her father’s words seeming to linger in the air between them.

“Did he really say that to you?”

Beneath the small table, his knee brushes against hers, the simple touch warming her through her jeans. “Word for word, Swan.”

Two plates are suddenly placed in front of them, each one bearing a grilled cheese sandwich.  Startled, she looks up at her mother, belatedly realising that the loft has filled with the smell of melted cheese and toasted bread.  “ _Thank_  you. That looks great.”

“You’re a most gracious hostess, your Highness,” Killian tells her mother, who merely gives him a cool smile. 

“I’m called Mary Margaret in this realm,  _Charles._ ”

Her mother leaves them to eat, heading towards the crib in the corner of the room, and Emma flashes Killian a smug smile.  “Told you it wasn’t my father you had to worry about,” she whispers between bites of food, and he snorts with muted laughter. 

“It’s a battle I’m willing to fight, love.”  He takes a large bite of his sandwich, looking at her with those ludicrously bright blue eyes as he chews, then swallows. “I must say, though, I may have fought bigger foes, but not many as fierce as your mother.”

The muffled sound of her phone ringing interrupts them, and she hastily wipes her hands on her jeans before she grabs it from her pocket.  Henry’s face greets her from the screen, and her pulse quickens as she answers it.  “Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”

Henry sounds as though he’s about to explode, his words tripping over themselves. “Who do we know who can freeze whole towns overnight?”

“Personally?  No one.”

She hears her son heave a long-suffering sigh at the other end of the line.  “Mom, the whole town is frozen.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “ _Frozen_.”

Emma closes her eyes.   _No. No fucking way._   “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“It all fits!”  She hasn’t heard Henry sound this excited in a long time.  “Have you got my book?”

“Hold on.”  She looks at Killian, who is watching her anxiously, her mother standing at his shoulder. “Can you grab Henry’s book please?”

As always, he’s quick to do her bidding, and soon the book is open on the table in front of them, their empty plates pushed to one side. She puts the call on speaker, then lays her phone on the table as well. “Okay,” she says to her son, “We’ve got it.”

“Check to see if there are any more new pages,” Henry instructs, and Killian starts turning the pages.  After a few seconds, he leans towards the phone with obvious uncertainty, as if he’s not sure where he should project his voice.  

“Who exactly are we looking for, lad?”

Henry sounds as though he’s jumping up and down on his bed, and maybe he is, Emma thinks. “The Snow Queen?”

Emma hears her mother’s sharp intake of breath, and looks up to find her staring at the book with wide eyes.  “What?  Have you heard of her?”

“Only in stories.”  Mary Margaret makes a self-depreciating face.  “I know, the irony, right?”

“I’ve heard tell of those stories as well.”  Killian looks up at her mother.  “You had no inkling she might be a real person?”

The other woman shakes her head.  “No, but then I thought that Oz wasn’t a real place and look what happened with all that.”

After another moment, Killian looks up from his search of the storybook.  “Sorry, lad,” he tells Emma’s phone. “I can’t see any mention of a Snow Queen on these pages.”

“Damn it,” comes her son’s voice from the phone, and Emma quickly snatches it up.

“Watch the language, kiddo,” she tells him playfully, and he laughs. 

“I gotta go. I can hear Mom downstairs, so maybe she’s feeling okay again. Or maybe she’s just gone downstairs to start cooking again.”

Emma hesitates.  She is dying to know what kind of mood Regina might be in now that she’s had several hours to process the arrival of Maid Marian in Storybrooke, but she really doesn’t want to put Henry in the middle of what is probably going to be a very awkward situation.   “Okay, I’ll talk to you again soon. Love you.”

She can hear the smile in her son’s voice. “Love you, too.”

Her phone now silent, Emma drops her head into her hands, her breakfast suddenly sitting like a stone in the pit of her stomach. “Is it possible that we might have brought back another fairy tale character from the past? Someone who wasn’t from the Enchanted Forest but from somewhere else?”   She looks up at her mother.  “You know, like Doctor Whale.  He’s never been in the book, but he came to Storybrooke along with everyone else with the first curse, right?”

As always happens at the mention of Victor Whale, a flicker of discomfort flashes across her mother’s face. “That’s true.”

Emma sighs.  “Well, we came through the portal in Gold’s vault.  If anyone knows who or what might have followed us back to Storybrooke, it’s going to be him.”

The unmistakable sound of a wide awake baby begins to vibrate through the air and, as her mother darts off in the direction of the crib, Killian leans back in his chair. “So all we have to do is disturb the Dark One on his honeymoon.”  Tilting his head, he offers Emma a wearily knowing smile.  “That should turn out well.”

“We don’t exactly have a lot of options.” Emma pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. She’s dreading the thought of what they’re about to do as much as anyone, but she needs him to have her back on this one. “Come on, what happened to all that optimistic crap you were sprouting this morning?”

He shrugs, but he’s already rising to his feet as well. “When it comes to the Dark One, love, I learned a long time ago that optimism is very much misplaced.”

“Would you like to say hello to your big sister?”  Mary Margaret is smiling at baby Neal as she walks slowly across the room, and the pure joy in her face makes Emma’s heart skip a beat.  _David, we missed out on everything._

She’d missed out on that, too.  She’d never held Henry after he was born, not in her real life.  But she still remembers how she’d held him in the memories Regina had given her.  How he’d smelled.  How he’d curled into her, his beautiful skin damp and warm against her breast.

Baby Neal is beautiful and soft and fragrant and she’s very happy to hold him and just as happy to hand him back to Mary Margaret.  Killian mysteriously vanishes into the kitchen (carrying the dirty plates to the sink) just when it looks like her mother is about to ask if he’d like a turn at nursing baby Neal, which amuses Emma greatly.  She thinks of how he’d looked at her last night when she brought up the subject of birth control - there had been something that looked an awful lot like longing in his eyes before he’d covered it with a teasing reply - and her mouth goes dry.  They’ve only spent one night together and there’s another bad guy in town.  This is not the time to be thinking about any baby other than the baby who is in her mother’s arms right now.

The slamming of the front door (and the rush of cold air) heralds her father’s return.  He’s pink-cheeked and smiling as he rubs his hands together.  “That is crazy cold out there.”   He looks at his wife and baby son, and his smile changes from that of a man anticipating an adventure in the outdoors to a man who would stop at nothing to protect his family.  “Are you sure you’ll be okay here alone?” 

Mary Margaret smiles at him.  “I won’t be alone.”  She swings the swaddled baby towards him, then swings him back again as David moves closer.  “I’ve got this guy for company, remember?”   Then her parents are kissing, and while it’s nowhere near as awkward as it was in Neverland, it’s still something she’d rather not see.  _Or hear, for that matter,_ she thinks with an inner grimace.   She turns to roll her eyes at Killian, only to find him studying her parents, who are still standing entwined with the baby between them, with an expression that could only be called wistful.  As if realising she’s watching him, he blinks and gives her a broad grin.

“Am I to assume that I’m joining you and your father on this little jaunt, Swan?”

“Well, that depends.” She closes the distance between them until she’s right beside him, close enough to see the silvery flecks in his blue eyes.  “You could stay here instead and learn how to change a diaper if you like?”

The terminology is apparently familiar to him, because he immediately produces David’s knitted cap from one of the pockets of his coat and pulls it onto his head. “And suddenly, a visit to the Dark One doesn’t seem so bad a prospect,” he quips, and this time Emma gives into the temptation to smack him in the arm.

The sound of a parental throat being cleared has them both turning to see David, waiting by the front door.  “Again, if you two are quite finished?”

“I hate to tell you this, Dave,” Killian begins as he starts to walk towards the front door, and Emma finds herself holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, “but we’re only just getting started.”

Her father looks at him (seeming to take in the fact that Killian’s wearing his hand-me-down cap without comment), then at Emma, who simply smiles at him.  If Killian wants to do all the heavy lifting in this situation, that’s completely fine with her. Besides, it’s so much fun to watch.  Finally, David just shakes his head, and turns to open the front door. “Just remember one thing,  _Charles_ ,” he tosses over his shoulder as a parting shot. “You get the back seat.”

Before leaving the loft, Emma hugs her mother and kisses baby Neal on the forehead.  “Call us if anything happens, okay?” 

“I’m a big girl, you know,” Mary Margaret looks up from where she and Neal are curled up on the couch, her tone almost melancholy.  “I kinda wish I was going with you.”

Emma smiles as she makes her way towards where Killian is waiting at the door, then her gaze lands on Henry’s book, still sitting in the middle of the table.  It occurs to her that maybe there’s a better way to help a certain pirate win over Snow White than simply telling her that he’s a good man.  Maybe it would be better if her mother read it for herself.  Picking up the book, she takes it to the coffee table in front of the couch and opens it up at the most relevant page.  Mary Margaret looks down at it, frowning at the sight of Zelena’s portal immortalised for all time.  “What’s this?”

Emma smiles at her.  She can feel Killian watching them, and she knows he can hear them, too.  “It’s a really good story with a happy ending. I think you should read it.”

Her mother looks a little bemused, but she smiles back, her hand smoothing gently over the curve of baby Neal’s head.  “I _do_ like a happy ending.”

She and Killian follow in her father’s wake, closing the door firmly behind them.  As soon as they’re alone on the landing, he curls his fingers around her left wrist, brushing his thumb over the strip of bare skin between her glove and her sleeve, skin that has been hidden by a cherished memento for months. “You alright, Swan?”  She feels a tickle of warmth dance along her arm at the simple touch, spreading all the way up to her heart. 

“I’m sorry that I was angry before,” she blurts out before she can catch herself. Turns out being emotionally honest with people was kind of addictive. Who knew?  “It wasn’t your fault.”

He glances towards the bottom of the stairs, as if checking to see if her father has gone on ahead, then back at her. “We can talk later, love,” he tells her, then he kisses her, his lips warm and firm, a tender tasting of her mouth that has her rocking back on her heels, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his vest.

It’s over too quickly, and she’s left staring at him, her mouth tingling, her pulse racing. “What was that for?”

He’s breathing fast too, his eyes dark. “Does there need to be a reason?”

She licks her lips, watching as his eyes darken a little more. “Come to think of it, no.”

Killian takes her hand in his, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to her leather-clad knuckles. “Ready to go and disturb the Dark One’s honeymoon?” he asks cheerfully and despite the hard knot of anxiety lodged somewhere in the middle of her chest, Emma grins. 

“Aye-aye, Captain.”  She gives him a mock salute as she turns towards the stairs, not missing the flash of hunger in his eyes at her teasing words. “I mean, come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

They’re still laughing in fits and starts when they reach the truck parked outside, and it’s a great testament to her father’s patience that he doesn’t tell them to shut the hell up or he’ll make them walk to Gold’s house.  Killian chooses to sit in the middle of the backseat of the truck, and she manages to catch his eye in the rear view mirror.  When he waves his hook at her, she feels the laughter start to bubble up in her throat all over again.

David shakes his head at them, but he’s smiling. “Someone want to tell me what’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing, trust me.”  Emma avoids looking at the rear view mirror. “I just made a joke about the worst thing that Gold could do to us.”

A gleaming silver hook appears over her shoulder, scratching its tip against her seatbelt strap. “Perhaps he’ll cut _your_ hand off this time, Swan,” is the cheerful suggestion from the backseat, and this time even David laughs. 

As they slowly make their way across town, Emma quickly fills her father in on Henry’s theory, and his reaction is almost exactly the same as her mother’s had been.  He’s heard the stories, but that’s all he thought they were.

“Like you say, if anyone can tell us who or what might have followed you back, it will be Gold.  Regina told me last night that Belle has control of the dagger now,” he says now as he cautiously navigates his way along the icy road.  “I mean, that’s got to stack the odds in our favour, right?”

“Maybe.” Frowning, Emma watches the icy landscape as it passes slowly by the car window, the last traces of her laughter fading in the face of what lies ahead of them.  Not just Gold, but the unknown force that’s turned their town into a giant freezer.  She would love to discount Henry’s suggestion of the Snow Queen, but this is Storybrooke, and she’s learned that anything is possible. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some plot, a whole heap of supposition and Regina. It also contains a few words of Danish that may not be 100% grammatically correct and I would be super excited if anyone wished to correct me.

~*~

 

Leaning back in his seat in David’s vehicle, Killian taps his gloved fingers on the cold buckle of what Emma told him in New York was called a seatbelt.  (He approves of both the concept and the name.  Unlike many things in this realm, both make perfect sense.)  In the front of the car, Emma and her father are discussing contacting the most contrary of the dwarves. 

“Hey, do you have Leroy’s number?”  Emma studies her portable phone.  “I don’t think I have it.”

Without taking his eyes off the road ahead, her father hands over his own telephone.  “It’s under Grumpy,” he offers, and Emma flicks a glance towards the backseat, grinning when her eyes meet Killian’s.

“Really?” 

“It’s just easier.” The prince appears unapologetic.  “Why are you calling Leroy?  Out of everyone in this town, I’m sure the dwarves are managing just fine.”

“I know.” Emma looks at her father as she puts the phone to her ear.  ‘That’s why I’m calling him.”  

It only takes a few seconds for the call to be answered on the other end, then Emma has a brief conversation with the dwarf in question, asking him if he could possibly go to the barn and see if there’s anything there that looks suspicious.  There’s a brief pause while she listens, her brow creasing in a frown. “That’s right, other than a giant stinking portal in the ground.  Keep an eye out for anything that looks like a vase or an urn, okay?”   Another pause.  “No, if you find anything weird, don’t go near it, just call me or David.”

Ending the phone call, she turns in her seat to look at him.  “Do you remember anything special about that urn?”

“I’m afraid not, love.”  He very much dislikes the thought that he may have contributed to their current dilemma, but doesn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing the issue in front of her father.  It wasn’t quite the impression he wished to make on the father of the woman he loves. “It was about so high,” he gestures with his hand and his hook, “and made of metal and was quite weighty.”  

Emma is completely twisted around now, her arms resting on the back of the front seat, her gaze open and earnest. “You know, there were hundreds of weird and wonderful things in that vault. I wonder why it caught your eye.”

He stares at her, her words calling to the foggy edges of his memory. They invoke a sense of _something_ , something elusive he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  She gazes at him hopefully, the tiniest hint of a smile on that marvelous mouth of hers.  It’s the same smile she’d given him when she’d started to question him as to how he’d found her in New York City ( _you traded your ship for me?)_ and suddenly it comes to him. _Bloody hell._ “It looked familiar.”

As she frowns, David glances back over his shoulder, then quickly looks back at the road.  “Familiar, how?”

He closes his eyes, trying to picture the urn in question, wondering if his memory is playing tricks on him.  “As you may already know, a pirate’s life is filled with many a glittering prize.”  Opening his eyes, he smiles reassuringly at Emma.  “If he’s a good pirate, of course.”

The smile flirting with her lips grows a little wider.  “Killian-”

“Sorry, love.”  He reaches out, touching her gloved hand where it rests on the top of the seat. “You know how I love a good story.” 

“Get to the point, Jones,” the driver says in a gruff, mildly distracted voice, and Killian clears his throat.

“The thing is that a man, even a pirate, can lose track of his treasures after a century or two.”  He offers Emma an apologetic smile.  “I can’t be entirely certain, but I seem to recall having a similar object in my possession at one time.”

Emma is watching him intently.  “Really?”

He nods, sifting backwards through the untold number of pictures in his head.  “Mr Smee brought it aboard one evening.  Said that a beautiful woman had sold it to him for a tiny sum.”  He shrugs.  “At the time, I thought my first mate was merely spinning tales to impress me, but the urn was pretty enough.”

Emma rolls her eyes at this - she’s met Smee, of course, and is under no illusion as to his character – then nods at him as if in encouragement.  “Was there anything special about it?”

He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that might help unearth the memories he seeks. “Not as far as I know, love.  It was just another shiny trinket to adorn the Captain’s Quarters, to be honest.”  It seems almost odd to recall events that involved himself as he was during that time.  It’s as though he’s speaking of a different man, and perhaps he is.  “It’s possible the familiarity of the vessel drew my eye, but other matters quickly became more pressing and it passed from my mind.”

Emma’s gaze meets his at the mention of ‘other matters’ _,_ and he feels a flutter of warmth in his chest at the emotion glittering in her eyes.  _I want to stop running._

“Maybe we should talk to your first mate,” David suggests darkly, breaking the spell between them (it seems to be becoming a habit) and Killian has to agree, although he knows this won’t be an easy feat. 

“I concur, but our dear Mr Smee is quite adept at only being found when he wants to be found, I’m afraid.”

“Once a rat, always a rat,” Emma mutters from the front seat, and her father darts her a curious look.  “Never mind.”  

David cautiously turns into a wide, tree-lined street.  As with the rest of the scenery they’ve witnessed, everything here is also a glittering white.  “Maybe we should check to see if the one you had is still aboard your ship,” he suggests as he slowly turns the steering wheel, and Killian feels his chest tighten.

“Maybe later,” Emma cuts in smoothly, flicking him a quick smile over her shoulder.  “Let’s see if we can find Gold first.”

The vehicle is decreasing in speed, and Killian feels his pulse quicken.  The last time he’d seen the Dark One at the Widow Lucas’ diner, albeit at a wary distance, things had been quite different between himself and Emma.  The Crocodile may have long guessed at his feelings for the Saviour, but now it would be a foolish man who couldn’t recognise the change in the wind.  The Crocodile may be many things, but a foolish man he is not.  The possibility that he may react badly to their intrusion makes his skin crawl with a chill completely unrelated to the icy landscape.  Emma has her magic, but it pales in comparison with that which the Dark One possesses.  If she should come to any harm -

“Hey, you okay there?”  He blinks, startled to find that the car has stopped and Emma is waving a hesitant hand in front of his face.  “We’re at Gold’s place,” she adds with a wry smile, as if she knows she’s pointing out the obvious. “Have you ever been here before?”

It’s a fair enough question, given his history with the Crocodile, and he shakes his head.  “Alas, no.”  He peers out through the foggy window.  “I’m quite sure I would have remembered the fact that the Dark One appears to live in a pumpkin-colored house.”

Emma’s answering laugh has his spirits rising as they alight from David’s vehicle.  Once again, it is deathly quiet, no wind or sleet whatsoever, the feeble sunlight doing nothing to warm the bones.  Beside him, David claps his gloved hands together.  “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Again, the pathways are icy, and he can’t help smiling when Emma puts her hand on his left arm to steady herself as they start to approach the house.  “Should have changed out of these boots,” she mutters, and he pats her hand with his where it lays on his arm. 

“I’ll not let you fall, Swan.”

Ahead of them, her father is striding determinedly towards the front wooden porch of the Crocodile’s dwelling. Perhaps the tips of his ears are red from the cold, perhaps annoyance, but either way, the fact that Emma apparently has no intention of hiding her affection for him in the presence of her parents is most reassuring.  

As David reaches up to knock on the door, his hand comes to a halt in mid-air, as though stopped short by some invisible presence.  Which, given they’re visiting the Dark One, isn’t beyond the realm of possibility.  “Damn it.”  He looks at Emma, who frowns, her hand dropping from Killian’s arm.

“Protection spell?”

Her father scowls at the front door as if it’s personally slighted him. “Seems like it.”

Emma takes a deep breath, lifting her hands, palms outward, and Killian feels the now familiar prickle of her white magic pressing against his skin, through all the layers of clothing.  After a few seconds, she opens her eyes and shakes her head.  “Wow.”  She looks at them both in turn.  “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Her father looks most disappointed.  “There’s no way to even knock on the door or a window?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”   She leans to her right, trying to see through the large picture window, but the glass is opaque to the point of darkness.  Reaching out a hand, she apparently encounters the same issue her father had with the front door.  “Nope.”  Seeing the flicker of frustration dances across her face, Killian turns on his heel and walks carefully back down the front stairs, making his way around the side of the house.  Each and every window has the same dark, glossy look to it, and he knows there is no point testing each pane. 

By the time he returns to the front porch, Emma has her telephone pressed to her ear.  “I’m ringing the landline, we should be able to hear it from here.”   The three of them fall silent, listening, but not a single sound comes from within the cavernous depths of the dwelling.  “Damn it, got the voicemail.”  She pauses briefly, then continues, and Killian assumes she is leaving a message on one of those automated devices. “Mr. Gold, it’s Emma Swan. You need to call me as soon as you get this message.  We’ve got a situation happening and we need to talk to you.”  Frowning, she ends the call and slips her phone into the back pocket of her trousers.  “Now what?”

Killian glances between father and daughter, unsure as to whether his input would be welcomed by both parties.  “Perhaps we should check on the townsfolk as planned?”

David gives him a nod.  “Good idea.”

“Actually,” Emma begins slowly, “I have a better idea.”

“I’m all ears, love,” Killian reassures her, hoping to banish the frown from her lovely face, “although you can’t see them at present thanks to this rather fetching headwear.”

David looks mildly offended, while his daughter looks very hard as though she’s trying not to grin.  “Let’s head to the station.”  She glances at them both in turn.  “The phone lines are obviously still working, so let’s hit the phones instead of crawling our way around town on the icy roads.”

It’s a bloody sound idea, and a swell of pride washes over Killian as he offers her his arm. “As milady wishes,” he answers, and is rewarded with a warm smile.

“Oh, yeah,” the prince mutters as he navigates the icy steps ahead of them.  “This isn’t going to be weird at _all_.”

~*~

“One thing I have to say about that first curse of Regina’s,” Emma says to the room at large as the three of them work their way through the Storybrooke telephone directory, “she really did think of everything.”  She runs her finger down the page in front of her, then reaches for the phone once more.  “Who would have thought that a cursed town would have an official White Pages?”

“Actually, it was Gold who created the curse,” her father corrects gently, “Regina was just the one who cast it.”

“Credit where credit is due, love,” Killian remarks, and is oddly pleased when David laughs as well.

“Not sure either of them is too eager to claim responsibility for everything’s that happened, to be honest.”

The heat in the station is turned up as high as the devices will allow, but they’re still wearing their outdoor coats and gloves.  He’s drawn the line at wearing that ridiculous headwear, however.  Thankfully, the coffee machine has been called into service, easing the chill. It’s a simple enough device, and it’s gratifying to discover it is easily operated with one hand, making it easy for him to use.  At one point, when he puts a fresh mug in front of Emma as she speaks to Dr Whale on the telephone (he’s complaining about his cable TV being out, whatever that means), David gives him a searching glance as Emma mouths a silent _thanks_.  

“It’s good of you to help.”

Killian shrugs as he returns to the corner of the desk Emma had allocated to him, thinking that it would be pleasant if - even for one day only - the other people in Emma’s life would stop being suspicious of his motives. Then again, he thinks, _pirate._ “Where else would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”  David puts a tick next to another name on the list he’s made.  “Checking on your beloved ship to make sure it’s not frozen solid?” 

Killian hesitates.  It’s the second time the Prince has mentioned the Jolly Roger, and over David’s shoulder Killian can see Emma’s suddenly anxious expression.  She says nothing, but her father picks up on the change in mood instantly.  He puts down his pen, his gaze trained on Killian’s face.  “Come to think of it, where _is_ your ship?”

There’s a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach, and while he doesn’t wish to be rude, neither does he wish to go down that conversational path again quite so soon. “She’s gone, mate.”

David frowns.  “So you never found it after we were sent back to the Enchanted Forest?”

“ _She,_ mate, not _it_ ,” Killian tells him with a tight smile, avoiding Emma’s anxious gaze. “It’s a complicated tale, and one best left for another day.”

David opens his mouth to continue, but once again his daughter cuts in smoothly before he can go on.  “David, I can’t get onto Katherine.  Do you have her cell number?”

“Uh, sure.” Distracted by the request, David turns his attention back to the task at hand, searching through the names listed in his portable telephone.  Over his bent head, Emma catches Killian’s eye and gives him a smile that looks like an apology, which unsettles him as much as it comforts him. 

It’s not her burden to apologise for her father’s natural curiosity, he thinks, and he has no wish for the subject of the Jolly to become a conversation pariah until the end of days. That said, the wound is still raw, and while he may have bared his soul to Emma last night, he’s in no rush to lay his transgressions bare to the world at large.

Thankfully, David doesn’t return to the subject, and they spend the next hour calling or sending electronic messages to the townsfolk.  It’s quite the experience, being exposed at such length to what he now knows is generally referred to as technology, thanks to young Master Mills.  They’d had several in-depth conversations on the subject during their day on the water (the lad had been quite strident in his views on the age and state of the vessel which they had purloined for the duration).  If today was occurring under different circumstances, Killian would have been happily fascinated by the seemingly ordinary magic being performed by the machines around him. 

As it is, however, he ticks off names of townsfolk on his list - Emma had very kindly put some thought into who she felt wouldn’t be, as she had phrased it, freaked out by the fact that _he_ was calling them – and tries not to think about how they’d been wrapped up in each other in a warm bed only a scant few hours ago.

Leroy contacts the station just after the clock strikes ten, and Killian can immediately tell from the disappointment etched on Emma’s face that the trip to the barn had proved fruitless.  “No, don’t do that,” she says after a moment of listening. “Just get yourselves back home and try to stay warm until we sort this out.”   When the conversation is over, she places her telephone on the table with an irritated ‘thunk’ and a roll of her eyes.  “Only the dwarves would think that starting a fire in the barn to melt the ice to check for anything out of the ordinary was a good idea.”   She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms, suddenly looking weary, and Killian’s own hand twitches with the urge to reach for her.  There’s a time and a place, he reminds himself, and the place is certainly not in front of her father. 

They keep working their way through their respective lists of names.  He learns after his first attempt that as much as he’d like to be known by his true name, the people of Storybrooke don’t know who the bloody hell Killian Jones is.  So he takes to introducing himself as ‘Captain Hook, calling under the authority of Sheriff Swan’ and, to his surprise, none of the townsfolk hang up their telephones in his ear.  The sight of Emma smiling as she shamelessly eavesdrops, her long fingers dancing across the screen of her telephone, keeps him warm for the next hour, right until the moment she finally calls a halt. 

“Glad we don’t have to pay real phone bills in this place,” she announces in a decidedly more upbeat tone, perhaps cheered by the knowledge that they’ve managed to check on the welfare of almost all the inhabitants of the town.  “Another thing to thank Gold for, I guess.”

“Perhaps the Crocodile might emerge from his lair if he knew you wished to compliment him, Swan,” Killian murmurs as he rubs his own eyes, vaguely feeling the effects of the last few days’ exertions for the first time.  What he needs is sleep and many hours of it at that, preferably in the company of the woman who is presently chewing on the end of a writing pen and presumably frowning at the reminder of the Dark One’s elusiveness.  Catching her gaze with his, he makes his tone as gentle as he can. “Perhaps it’s time we consulted Regina on the matter?”

He sees the reluctance in her eyes, and decides he doesn’t care if her father is present.  “She may be angry with you, love, but she wouldn’t be foolish enough to raise a hand against you.”

“Hoo-, uh, Kilian’s right,” her father tells her, and Killian does his level best not to visibly preen.  “Okay, so she was angry and she mouthed off, but you know Regina.”  He gives his daughter a wry smile. “She doesn’t exactly have a filter.”

Killian frowns.  “Filter?”

Emma looks at him, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile. “You know, the little voice in your head that tells you when to say something and when to keep your mouth shut.”

He grins at her. “I seem to recall possessing something of the sort when I was a young lad.”

The sound of David’s telephone ringing interrupts their conversation, confirming Killian’s suspicion that it was a mistake for them to leave the privacy of his room at Granny’s this morning. Perhaps when this day is over, they will be able to converse without being pulled in ten different directions, but he’s not optimistic. 

“Regina, I was just going to call you.”  Emma’s head snaps up at her father’s greeting to his caller, as does his own.  David holds up his hand to them both, as if asking them to wait.  “Okay if I put you on speaker?”  He listens for a moment – his eyeroll is not unlike his daughter’s, Killian muses – then he does just that.  “Okay, you’re on.”

Even conveyed through the small device, Regina’s voice looms large in the room. “We have a little problem.”

“So we gather, your Majesty,” Killian drawls, frowning at the way Emma’s shoulders seem to slump at the sound of Regina’s voice.

The former Evil Queen’s reply is predictable swift and disdainful. “Oh, _you’re_ there. Why am I not surprised?”

“Just lending a hand, love,” he shoots back, and is pleased to see Emma’s mouth curve in a smile.

“If I _might_ be allowed to continue?”  Obviously, he’s already been dismissed by her Majesty, which suits him just fine. “I need you to meet me at the library.”

“All of us?”  David frowns at the phone in his hand.  “Even Snow and the baby?”

“That’s up to you.”  The indifference in Regina’s voice is glaringly obvious. 

“It’s below freezing out there. Not the best weather for a new born baby,” David murmurs, as if thinking aloud, and they hear a humourless laugh drift from the telephone. 

“If the pirate is there, I can only assume you have the Saviour with you.” Regina’s words are laced with steel, and Killian darts a quick glance at Emma.  To his relief, her eyes are clear and her back is ramrod straight.  “I sure she’s capable of conjuring a simple heating charm without messing up too badly.”

Emma pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, raising her voice as she addresses the phone in her father’s hand.  “I’m sure I can, too,” she tells Regina in a flat voice. “We’ll be there.”  She makes a slicing motion with her hand, and David nods in understanding, bidding the Mayor a quick farewell before ending the communiqué.  “ _God.”_ Emma practically spits the word out when her father puts down his telephone. “I know she’s pissed at me about Robin’s wife, but seriously?”

Killian’s never been so glad to see her angry.  If she’s angry, it means she’s coming to accept the fact that she did nothing wrong in saving an innocent woman’s life.  “No filter, remember?”

Father and daughter turn to look at him in surprise, and he can’t help giving Emma a quick wink.  “Apparently I’m a sponge.”

Emma grins as David looks at them both in turn, then shakes his head, obviously deciding he’s better off not asking for clarification.  _Good man,_ Killian thinks.  “Why the library, I wonder?”  David rises to his feet and slips his phone into his pocket.  “Not exactly the warmest place in town.”

“Her Majesty is quite fond of fireballs,” Killian drawls as he closes the aptly named White Pages with a thud. “I’m sure she’ll find a way to generate suitable heating.”

“David’s right, though. Why the library?”  Emma frowns as she begins to gather up their used coffee mugs.  “Why not her place?”

“Belle isn’t around, remember?”  David is shuffling papers on the desk.  “Maybe Regina wants some help researching our latest problem.”

Killian hesitates briefly, then voices the less-than-cheering thought that’s occurred to him. “Or perhaps she’s discovered something useful in that odious underground cavern of hers.”

Emma looks at him, startled.  “You’ve been down there?”

“I have indeed, love.”  He leans one hip against the corner of her desk, his head suddenly filled with the memory of Regina’s hands shoving at his back, sending him flying through the air, the shockwave of impact hammering through his bones as he’d hit solid rock. 

“So have I.”  She dumps the dirty cups in the small galley in the corner of the room.  “I fought a dragon down there.”  An odd sadness flashes across her face. “When Henry was in hospital after eating Regina’s poisoned turnover.”  The sadness in her eyes hardens, and again he’s glad, because she needs to remember Regina has wronged her and her loved ones far more than the advent of an innocent woman from the past.  “Gold sent me down into the basement to retrieve a golden egg hidden in the belly of a dragon.” She makes a face.  “You’d think I’d be used to saying things like that now, but nope, it’s still weird.”

“Hold on a minute.”  David has frozen in the act of checking on the heating implements and is staring at his daughter. “Gold sent you to retrieve a true love spell from the belly of a dragon?”

Her chin lifts, and Killian sees the muted pride glowing in her bright eyes, and an answering echo warms his own thoughts.   _There’s his tough lass_. “Yup.” 

Her father’s expression can only be described as incredulous.  “I’m the one he convinced to hide the damned egg in there in the first place!”

Emma’s eyes widen.  “I guess that could explain why he gave me your sword.”

Hook picks up his borrowed woolen cap from the desk, dangling the item from his gloved fingertips. “Would I be correct in assuming that the dragon in question was the lovely Maleficent?”

Again, both heads turn in unison. “Why?”

He can smile about it now, of course, but just like Madam Mayor, he hasn’t forgotten that day. “Because that was the beastie Regina had toy with me as a distraction while she retrieved the trigger that almost destroyed this town.”

Emma looks at her father, then at him. “So the three of us have all fought the same dragon?”

Killian grins. “So it would seem, love.”

“Well.”  David looks more than a little impressed.  “It’s a small world.”

“Especially in this town,” Emma mutters, then waves a gloved hand towards the front door to the station.  “I guess we’d better get going,” she adds, sounding less than eager.  She hesitates, then glances at her father.  “Should we bother disturbing Mary Margaret?”

The prince hesitates. “There’s no point dragging them out into the cold until we know what’s actually going on, and like Regina said, the protection spell is still intact at the loft.  That said-” He looks at his daughter, who nods sagely.

“You’d better ask what she wants to do anyway.”

Killian smiles to himself.  Having met the woman in question during the height of her banditry, he understands completely. 

After a quick telephone conversation with his wife, a smiling David picks up the keys to his vehicle and jangles them loudly.  “She’s happy not to have to go to the library, but she’s going to take Neal and check on our neighbors in the building.”  Winding his scarf around his neck, he pushes open the door, and the temperature in the station immediately drops as he peers out into the ice-bound street. “Maybe we should walk instead of taking the truck?”

Emma makes a face. “In these boots?  I’d rather take the truck if that’s okay.”   Her father’s answering smile is doting, and Killian doesn’t quite have time to stifle his smirk before she glares at them both, a mock frown tugging at her brow.  “Okay, so I still haven’t found my sea legs yet.”  She turns her back on both men, leading the way out of the station, her nose in the air.  “But I’m still the Sheriff and I say we’re driving.”

 _A tough lass, indeed_.  Killian’s very glad both father and daughter are now walking ahead of him.  Given the wave of admiration that’s just gripped him in the face of Emma Swan’s charming impudence, he’d rather keep what he’s quite sure is a painfully sentimental expression to himself for now.  

They take the truck.

~*~

The Mayor is already in residence at the library when they arrive.  To Emma’s obvious delight, so is Henry.   The young lad rushes towards them as they push open the heavy front door. “Mom!”

Emma wraps her arms around her son as he embraces her, the boy now tall enough for her to rest her chin on the top of his head.  “Hey, kiddo. You okay?” 

“Sure.”  His face is aglow with excitement.  “The cold never bothered me anyway, right Mom?”

For some reason, Emma shakes her head wearily at her son.  “Don’t. Just don’t, okay?”  She rubs her forehead with her fingertips, as though the subject is giving her a headache. “We don’t know it’s her.”

Henry bounces on the balls of his feet, his hands linked behind his back.  “I bet you it _is_.”

In the midst of this perplexing exchange, a shadow falls across them.  ‘If you’re quite finished working my son up into a state, Miss Swan?”

“Unbelievable,” Emma mutters beneath her breath as Henry moves to hug his grandfather.  Killian lets his hand brush hers in a quick, reassuring touch, looking up to find Regina watching them carefully, her nose wrinkled in faint distaste.  “Well, you wanted us here, and we’re here,” Emma goes on loudly, her gaze trained squarely on Regina’s face.  “Do you know what we’re dealing with?”

Regina’s dark gaze sweeps over them all, then she seems to come to some kind of decision.  “Not yet.”  Killian has the notion that the admission comes at a cost to her pride, and suddenly feels an echo of the vague sense of kinship he once felt for this woman and her mother.  “It’s a magic I’ve never experienced before, which is why I’m here in this God-forsaken rat hole of a building.”  Turning on her heel, she sweeps into the main body of the library, carrying herself as though she’s clad in one of her elaborate gowns rather than a tailored suit.  “But of course, the bookworm had to go and pull a vanishing act, so I was forced to call for help.”

David gives her a tight smile.  “Well, I’m sure you won’t regret it.”

Regina darts a quick glance in Emma’s direction, her dark eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.  “I already do.”

Beside him, Emma is literally vibrating with tension but says nothing in retaliation, and Killian makes a quick decision.  He knows she doesn’t wish to cause a scene in front of her son (Regina would have no such qualms) but he cannot stay silent. “While the others make a start on the research, your Majesty, might I have a word?”

Regina stares at him, obviously taken aback.  Unsurprisingly, she refuses.  “I don’t have time to engage in idle chatter, Captain.  In case you hadn’t noticed, my town is frozen over.”   She turns to walk away, and he takes a step after her.  Behind him, the others melt away, moving towards the shelves of books. 

“I spoke with Loxley last night.”  Regina stops in her tracks, but doesn’t turn to face him.  “He’s quite distraught at the circumstances in which you’ve found yourselves,” he adds, holding his breath.  He knows he’s taking a gamble here, but he’s learned the hard way that nurturing grief and misery brings nothing but more grief and misery.  “This situation is not of his making, and he is _far_ from indifferent to your feelings on the subject.”

“You’re right.”  Regina slowly turns.  “It wasn’t of his making.”  Her gaze flicks to where Emma and her family are searching the bookshelves.  “It was _hers._ ”

He tamps down on the flicker of anger that streaks through him.  “As I mentioned last night, milady, it’s not as simple as that.”   Waving a hand towards the closest arrangement of wooden chairs and reading desks, he gives her a smile.  “Will you sit for a moment?”

He can see her wavering, then her chin lifts, her dark eyes brimming with a glittering resentment. “And what makes you think I want to discuss my private life with a pirate?”

“Perhaps because you know I am one of the few people in this town who can truly understand what it is that you’re feeling.”

She hesitates, her lips pressed into a tight line as if she’s afraid of the words she might let herself say.  It’s such a novel concept - no filter, after all - that a wave of sympathy briefly touches him. He is tempted to reach out his hand to touch her arm, but thinks better of it.  She reminds him of a coiled spring, ready to unravel at the slightest provocation. “I was _happy_ ,” she finally bites out, her voice low and dark.  Her eyes glitter, although whether it’s with sorrow or anger, he cannot tell. “And now that has all been ruined.” 

Apparently she has no intention of letting herself be comfortable during such an awkward conversation, and he resigns himself to standing for the duration. “Loxley’s wife was due to die by your hand, love.”

 Anger flashes in her eyes. “You think I don’t realise that?”  

“What did Robin tell you about her?”  It’s a question he’d thought too indelicate to ask of the man himself the evening before, but it seems appropriate now.

Her chin lifts.   “That it had been his fault she’d died.”  

“And was it?”

“I don’t know.”  Her head droops slightly, her gaze sliding away from his. “I can’t recall,” she finally admits, and they both know what she’s really saying.  There have been too many.  Too many lost souls of which to keep track, or even remember.  He remembers many similar conversations with Cora, and wonders if Regina truly realises how closely she has followed in her mother’s footsteps. 

“Let me refresh your memory.”  He keeps his voice gentle, but he knows nothing will take the sting out of the words. “She was in your dungeon for protecting Snow White.  Before you _put_ her in your dungeon, you paraded her in front of a whole village, using her as a warning to all who might aid the bandit Snow White.”

From her expression, it appears that he has truly shocked her.  “And how the _hell_ do you know that?”

“Because Emma and I were there.”

She stares at him.  “You two were in my castle.  In my dungeons.”  Her bright red mouth trembles.  “What else did you see?”

He inhales a deep breath, willing the cool air to calm his heated thoughts. “If you’re asking if Emma and I watched as you burned her mother at the stake, your Majesty, the answer is yes.”

Regina closes her eyes, dark lashes black as coal against her skin. “Does Henry know?” 

“No.”

Opening her eyes, she looks past him to where Emma and her family are poring over several open tomes.  “Henry was all I had for a long time.”  She turns to regard him coolly.  “And then, for a short time, I had so much more.” 

“Perhaps you will have it again, milady.”  He should feel disloyal, suggesting that Regina might still find her happy ending with Loxley, but they both know the laws of time are not to be trifled with.  Marian’s existence in Storybrooke is an anomaly, a glitch in the fabric of how things were meant to be, and there is no predicting what the future might hold.  Robin had all but admitted to him that he was in love with Regina, but Killian doesn’t intend to divulge that information to the Mayor.  That tale is Robin’s to tell, if he ever chooses to do so.

“I very much doubt that,” she sniffs disdainfully, her hands coming up to rest on her hips. He can see that her knuckles are white with tension. “We’re wasting time here.”  She nods towards the others, her words clipped and brittle.  “Maybe you should make yourself useful.” 

Once again, she’s dismissed him as though he’s nothing more than a mild annoyance, and he can’t say he’s sorry.

~*~

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

He and Emma are stilling at a small wooden desk, huddled over a pile of musty books, carefully turning pages so as not to tear the fragile parchment.   Henry is with his grandfather, standing at the large centre table, and Regina has removed herself to the far corner of the large room, poring over the tome Emma has told him is her private spell book.  “I thought I’d reassure the Mayor that Loxley’s affection for her remains unaltered, despite his current situation.”

“Did it help?”

“I suspect not.”  The library is pleasantly warm (he suspect Regina has indeed employed a heating charm) and they have been able to remove their gloves, making the turning of pages that much easier.  “She is also now aware that you and I witnessed your mother’s death at her hands.”

Emma stares at him, the book beneath her hands momentarily forgotten. “How the hell did _that_ come up?”

“In the natural course of conversation, I assure you.”

“I guess anything’s possible with Regina,” she mutters, then turns her attention back to the book.  “I’m not finding anything about the Snow Queen in this one either,” she adds, her voice tight with frustration.  She lifts her head to address her father and son, raising her voice to catch their attention.  “Any luck?”

David shakes his head.  “Not yet,” he replies glumly, but her son seems more optimistic.

“Not yet, but she’ll be in here somewhere, I know she will!”  He grins at his mother, his eyebrows dancing.  “Maybe all the others, too.”

Emma flashes her son an indulgent smile before shaking her head.  “Don’t wish _that_ on us, kid.  Way too complicated for my liking.”

Killian frowns.  It seems that Emma and her lad have begun talking in a secret language, one he would very much learn how to decipher it. “Why is Henry so excited about the possibility of the Snow Queen being responsible for our current inclement weather?”   He lowers his voice, not wanting to upset the boy.  “Does he not know the tales of her?”

She sighs.  “There’s a movie back in the real world.”  He raises his eyebrows at the word _real_ and she gives him a look he’s begun to know very well.  “You know what I mean.”

“Aye, I do.”  The more he learns about Emma’s realm - the aforementioned movies being just one of them – the more he’s amazed to think it was known as the land without magic.  “What of it?”

“It’s about the Snow Queen, except in the movie she’s not the bad guy.”

He takes a moment to process this notion, then gives her a reassuring smile. “Well, perhaps if our culprit does emerge to be the Snow Queen, she will be more of a match to your land’s version than her true origins.”

Emma blinks, her dark lashes fluttering, a smile touching her lips.  “You could have just said you hope she’s a good guy.”

He leans closer, close enough to smell the faint traces of lemon soap and the underlying, intoxicating scent of her skin.  His gut tightens, and he remembers burying his face against the curve of her neck, inhaling her, devouring her as she moved beneath him.  Their eyes meet and lock, and he sees the exact instant that she understands his thoughts.  Her eyes darken, the pink tip of her tongue touching the swell of her bottom lip, her chest rising and falling noticeably beneath her knitted shirt.  “I could have done, Swan, but where’s the fun in that?”

Her pale throat works as she swallows hard, then she darts a quick glance to where David and Henry are sitting.  Apparently confident that they are engrossed in their own reading, she turns back to him.  “About earlier, when I was angry with you-”

“I’d hardly call that angry, love.”   Reaching out his hand, he gently pushes back the cuff of her coat to reveal her wrist. “I’m sorry about your ribbons.”

She corrects him with a soft, sad smile. “They were bootlaces, actually.”

He frowns. “Bootlaces?”

She looks quickly to where Regina is sitting, as if worried about being overheard, and when she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. “They belonged to a man called Graham.” There’s a tenderness in the way she speaks the name, and he feels his spine stiffen.  “He was the sheriff here when I first arrived,” she adds, and Killian realises with a pang that despite their night of intimacy, there is still so much he has to learn about Emma Swan. 

He covers her hand with his, sliding his fingers between hers. “What happened to him?”

She hesitates, indulging in a nervous licking of her lips, then she looks directly at him. “He died.”

There is both pain and a muted anger in those two words, and he wonders sadly if this is how she guessed so quickly at the deeper reasons behind his quest to find the Crocodile.  _Who’s Milah?_ “He was special to you.”

They both know it’s not a question, but she answers it anyway.  “He was. He was a good man.”  Again she darts an anxious glance towards Regina.  “Actually, I might tell you the rest of the story later.”

His heart sinks.  It’s clear she doesn’t wish to speak of the man in front of Regina, and if the man in question died in such a way that prompted the wearing of a talisman in his memory, the tale will not have a happy beginning, let alone an ending.  “Perhaps tonight?”

Her eyes meet his, her hand shifting beneath his until her palm is pressed against his.  “I’d like that.”

He looks down at their joined hands, and feels his eyes widen, because there is a small, delicate tattoo on the inside of Emma’s wrist, a tiny flower with rounded petals. It’s a tiny, simple thing that stands out on her pale skin, and he realises now that the bootlaces she wore must have hidden it from his eager eyes.  “I had no idea you had a tattoo, love.”  He can’t believe he’s missed mapping even a single inch of her skin, given his dedication to the task at hand.  “You keep surprising me, Swan.”  Releasing her hand, he dances his fingertips over the tiny etching.  “I just hope you had a more joyous reason to mark your skin than I did.”

“I did.”  Her wistful smile makes his heart contract.  “That’s another story to tell you, I guess.”

“They’re mounting up, Swan,” he teases quietly, aware of their companions.  “At this rate, we’ll be talking all night.”

Again, her eyes darken, and just like that, he’s back in his bedchamber at Granny’s, his every thought and inch of his body consumed with her, the giving and the taking of such pleasure that there were times when he thought his heart might actually stagger to a halt.  “Not _all_ night, I hope,” she murmurs, and the blood begins to pound in his ears.

“If you two are quite finished making my stomach turn,” Regina’s voice slices through the air like a rapier, startling them both, “I believe I’ve found something.” 

“Do tell.” Killian leans back in his chair to regard the Mayor, deliberately leaving his hand resting on Emma’s wrist.  To his relief, Emma follows his lead, refusing to be shamed into pulling her hand away from his touch, and pride burns deep in his chest. 

Behind them, David and Henry are quickly on their feet. “What is it?” Henry asks his mother, his face alight with eagerness, and Regina’s dark eyes soften as she regards him.  “Is it about the Snow Queen?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”  She looks at the adults in turn, her gaze hardening once again.  “It seems one of the oldest of the traditional stories of Snow Queen in this realm tell of her encounter with a mysterious figure known as den Mørke En.”  Her red mouth twists in displeasure.  “Which, I believe, loosely translates as the Dark One.”

“Sonofabitch,” Emma breathes, then flashes an apologetic glance at her son.  “Sorry.”  

Regina inclines her head a fraction. “While I don’t approve of your language in front of our son, Miss Swan, I agree with the sentiment.”

Emma’s mouth opens and shuts, and Killian sees the conflict in her eyes.  Regina may be addressing her as though the past few months never happened, but he can only imagine that the words _our son_ would be like a balm on the sting of her words.  “So whatever’s going on, Gold’s got to know who’s behind it.”   She frowns, glancing over her shoulder at her father, then at Killian.  “We’ve been trying to contact him all day.  He’s not answering his phone, his store is closed and there’s a protection spell on his house that pretty much scared the willies out of me.”

“You’re forgetting something, Miss Swan.” The smile that curves Regina’s full lips sends a finger of cold dread sliding down Killian’s spine.  “Those two might be on their honeymoon, but I’m still the Mayor of this town.”   She draws an ornately carved key from the pocket of her suit jacket, and beside him, Emma starts with recognition.  “Let’s go see if there’s anything useful in that shop of his, shall we?”

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has been reading along and waiting so patiently for me to update this one, my giant thanks to you. Only one more chapter to go after this one, for realsies this time. Thanks to scribblecat as always for her sick nagging, cheerleading and beta-reading skills. :)

~*~

 

“It seems one of the oldest of the traditional stories of the Snow Queen in this realm tell of her encounter with a mysterious figure known as den Morke En.”  Regina’s red mouth curves in a chilly smile, and Emma suddenly knows what’s coming.  “Which I believe loosely translates as the Dark One.”

 _And there it is_ , Emma thinks sourly.  They’d suspected Gold was somehow involved with this latest mess, and now they know.  Not that it does them any good with him being AWOL, though.  “Sonofabitch.”  The word is out of her mouth before she can bite it back, and she gives Henry a quick glance of apology.  “Sorry.” 

Henry’s response is to grin at her, which is the complete opposite of his other mother’s reaction. “While I don’t approve of your language in front of our son, Miss Swan,” Regina informs her with a lofty scowl, “I agree with the sentiment.”

Emma opens her mouth to tell Regina where she can stick her disapproval, then looks again at Henry’s hopeful little face.  _Our son._ After forty-eight hours of getting the cold shoulder (more like icy shoulder) from Regina, she’s going to take whatever olive branch the other woman might extend, no matter how grudgingly it’s offered.  “So whatever’s going on, Gold’s got to know whoever’s behind it.”  She glances at her deputies (God, wait, what?) in turn, trying to gauge their thoughts, but both men simply give her an identical nod of reassurance.  It’s a little unnerving, to be honest.  “We’ve been trying to contact him all day,” she tells Regina. “He’s not answering his phone, his store is closed and there’s a protection spell on his house that pretty much scared the willies out of me.”

“You’re forgetting something, Miss Swan.” Regina’s smile is the one that Emma remembers most from her first weeks in Storybrooke, the one that’s a combination of triumph and irritation. “Those two might be on their honeymoon, but I’m still the Mayor of this town.”  She produces a key, seemingly out of mid-air (and maybe it was), and Emma can’t help scowling at it, because she remembers those ornate skeleton keys all too well. You tend to remember items that helped someone frame your mother for murder, after all. “Let’s go see if there’s anything useful in that shop of his, shall we?’

“Wait a minute.”  Her father has come to stand at her shoulder, his hands on his hips as he regards Regina calmly. “I know that not being able to contact Gold is frustrating, but we can’t just break into his shop.”

Regina twirls the key around her index finger, her smile still fixed in place.  “It’s not breaking in if I have a key.”

“Why am I not surprised that’s your attitude?” Emma mutters under her breath, then clears her throat. “Actually, it _is_ still breaking in.”

Regina shrugs as she slips the key into her jacket pocket. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Miss Swan.”

Emma shakes her head. “I want to know what the hell’s going on here as much as you do, but what’s to say that there isn’t a protection spell on Gold’s shop that makes the one on his house look like a cakewalk?”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”  Regina’s dark eyes flash with irritation.  “Sit here and sing songs around the campfire?”

“Maybe there’s a spell that would melt the ice without flooding the town,” Emma shoots back, feeling no small measure of irritation herself, and she feels the reassuring bump of Killian’s knee against hers underneath the table. “Why don’t we start there?”

“Good idea, love,” he murmurs with a smile, then looks up at Regina, echoing David’s calm tone.  “As for the Dark One, perhaps one of your location spells might do the trick?”

Regina curls her lip at him. “It would, if everything Gold owns wasn’t tucked away in his damned house or his shop.”  She gestures towards him, her red fingernails flashing in a dismissive wave of her hand.  “As always, you’ve been an enormous help, _pirate_.”

“Give it a rest, Regina.”  Anger burns in Emma’s chest, and she shoves back her chair with a loud scrape, doing her best to remember that Henry is within earshot. “Can you find a spell to melt the ice safely or not?”

The other woman purses her lips, studying Emma and the two men in turn, then her gaze falls on Henry, and her whole face softens.  “I’m sure I can.  Give me a moment.”   With that, she turns on her heel and stalks back towards the workspace where she’d been reading earlier, and Emma breathes out an audible sigh, finding herself patting Killian on the shoulder without conscious thought. 

“Sorry about that.”

His shrug is a careless one, but she knows him now, and knows Regina’s words are just one more instance of people shoving that label in his face.  “I can handle Her Majesty, Swan.”   His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he reaches for the open book in front of him once again, but she doesn’t press him, not when they have David and Henry as an avid audience.

Speaking of which -

She walks to the corner desk where Henry is still perched, one of Belle’s heavy books open on his lap.  “Hey, kiddo, did you and Regina walk here from her house?”

“Nope.”  Grinning, he makes a wild ‘boom’ gesture with both hands. “Mom poofed us here.”

She tries not to frown in the face of her son’s obvious enthusiasm.  “Seriously?” 

“Yeah, it was great.”    Closing the book with a thud, he slides it off his lap, then gives her a hopeful smile.  “Hey, have you got my book?”

“Sorry, we left it with Mary Margaret back at the loft.”  She glances at Killian, who has also gotten to his feet and is now looking over her father’s shoulder at yet another giant (and dusty) book.  “I thought she might like to read the new pages.”

“You mean _the Adventures of_ _Princess Leia_ ,” Henry chortles, and Emma gives his cheek a gentle pinch.

“I already told you, I was under pressure, and it was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Am I missing something?”  As always, there’s no faulting the hearing of a three hundred year-old pirate.  “Is Princess Leia famous in your realm, lad?” He smiles at Henry as he saunters towards them.  “Was your mother guilty of impersonating an actual royal personage?”

Henry grins back at him.  “Famous in a galaxy far, far away, more like.”

Killian frowns, and Emma gives her son a light rap on the shoulder, because he should know better than to rely on pop culture references in this town. “Henry-”

“It’s from a movie,” he informs Killian.  “I’ve got the DVDs at home, I’ll show you some time.”

Killian glances at her, as if trying to gauge her reaction (she smiles) then back at Henry. “I’m starting to think you lot spend most of your lives watching those movie things.” 

Henry laughs, and the sight of his happy face makes Emma’s heart lurch. “Pretty much.”

While they wait for Regina to return, David takes to wandering up and down the library aisles.  Emma spies his phone in his hand, and suspects he’s texting her mother, as if he can’t stop himself from checking up on the rest of his family.  Smiling at the thought, she drops into the chair beside Henry, trying not to notice that Killian has taken it upon himself to perch on the corner of the desk and is shamelessly eavesdropping.  “Speaking of your book, can I ask you something?”

Henry’s eyes light up, as they always do at the mention of his storybook. “Sure.”

“Have new pages ever just appeared out of thin air before?”

Henry nods. “Yeah, Pinocchio’s story, remember?”

“Right.”   She chews on her thumbnail, pushing aside the guilt at indulging in a habit she thought long broken.  “You know, that book just appeared in the back of Mary Margaret’s cupboard as if by-”

Killian cuts in smoothly, one dark eyebrow raised. “Magic?”

“Smartass,” she tells him, and is rewarded with a wink that makes her pulse stutter.  “So this has happened once before,” she goes on hastily, leaning back in her chair (as if putting a few more inches between them will help).  “Last time it was Pinocchio’s story, and now me.”

Henry frowns at her. “But Mom, you were already in the book, remember?”   When she looks at him blankly, he puffs out an exaggerated sigh. “When we started Operation Cobra, you were in the book.  That’s how I knew your name was Emma.”

“Operation Cobra?” Killian looks puzzled, and while she’d love to bring him up to speed, that’s another conversation for having out of Regina’s earshot.   

“Long story,” she tells him, barely resisting the urge to pat his knee (he’s sitting so close to her, she can hardly be blamed for the impulse). “I’ll explain later.”  She looks at her son, and the memory comes to her as if in a dream.  “Those pages we burned in Archie’s office.”   God, that day seems like a lifetime ago.  She glances at Killian, who still looks as though he’s trying very hard to put the pieces of her story together, and decides a quick recap is in order.  “The book showed Prince Charming wrapping the baby princess in her blanket and putting her into the enchanted wardrobe to save her from the Evil Queen.”   She smiles at the memory, her palms feeling the ghostly brush of her long-treasured baby blanket.  “The blanket was embroidered with a giant _Emma_ , so you know, Henry felt it best if we hid them from Regina.”

Killian looks between her and Henry, still frowning.  “And this was when you first came to Storybrooke?”

Henry nods. “Before she believed in the curse,” he tells Killian with obvious pride - he’s proud of _her,_ she realises - and her eyes prickle hotly.  “She didn’t believe me, but she still helped me hide those pages from my Mom.”

Killian looks down at her, and the pride in his eyes is a match for her son’s. “It seems the Dark One was quite mistaken when he accused you of being incapable of taking a leap of faith, Swan.”  Embarrassed, Emma just shrugs, her face growing warm, but he doesn’t let it drop. “You did it for your son when you burned those pages.  You did it for me when you drank the memory potion I gave you.”

Certain her face is glowing (all she needs is David to come over and tell her how proud he is of her and she’ll have the trifecta of mortification) she tries to wave the praise away.  “I just trusted my gut-” she begins, then breaks off, because the library door has just been pushed open with a loud scrape and a gust of cold air.  Scrambling to her feet, she turns to see Robin Hood (again, still weird) standing in the doorway, his expression faintly apprehensive.   He shuts the door carefully behind him, then looks at Emma.

“My apologies, Sheriff, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Belatedly realising she’s got her hand on the butt of her gun, she relaxes, holding up her hands.  “Sorry, just a little on edge this morning.” 

To her surprise, Killian strides across the library and claps Robin on the shoulder, drawing him into the room. “Loxley, good to see you braved the magical winter landscape.”

“It’s true then?” Robin frowns, his gaze scanning the library behind them.  Emma has a pretty good idea who he’s looking for, and a sudden knot of anxiety tightens in her stomach. “There’s been a spell cast over the town?”

Killian nods.  “It would seem so.”

“Any thoughts as to who might have done such a thing?”

“We’re working on that.”  David has rejoined them, and shakes Robin’s hand.  “Is your family comfortable at Granny’s?”

“They’re well, thank you.”  There’s an awkward pause (the phrase ‘the elephant in the room’ has never made more sense to Emma) and it’s a relief when Robin turns to her, giving her a small dip of his head. “I have been meaning to thank you, Sheriff Swan.”  He looks at the badge she’d clipped onto her belt before they’d left the station, then offers her a wry smile. “I must say, I’m not used to dealing with someone of such upstanding character in your particular position.”

She has to think about that one, but it soon comes to her.  “I guess the Sheriff of Nottingham was just as bad as the stories make him out to be?”

“I’m afraid so.  Not someone on whom you’d turn your back on a dark night, or indeed any night.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to thank you, on behalf of myself and my son, for saving Marian.”  He glances at Killian, who gives him a tiny nod, then back at her.  “I understand that you’ve felt that perhaps you have complicated matters, and I wanted to reassure you of our heartfelt gratitude.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” she mutters, making a very clear mental note to interrogate Killian as soon as they’re alone as to exactly _what_ he and Robin Hood have been discussing in the hallway at Granny’s.    

The approaching click of Regina’s heels has never seemed so loud, and Emma sucks in her breath at the inevitable trainwreck about to unfold.  “Turns out that particular spell is a fairly simple one-” Regina announces as she comes into view, then freezes, her gaze fixed on Robin.  “What are _you_ doing here?” 

He dips his head in a small but chivalrous bow.  “I came to offer my assistance.”

Regina stares at him, her hands tightening around the parchment in her hands.  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Robin’s gaze never leaves Regina’s face, and it’s suddenly as though the rest of them aren’t even in the room.  Behind her, Emma hears her father shuffle his feet, but he wisely says nothing.  “In that case,” Robin goes on quickly, “perhaps I might speak with you, milady?”

Regina hesitates, her whole body seeming to vibrate with tension, and Emma jumps into the conversational fray, because this is just too painful to watch.  “Hey, so you were saying that the ice-melting spell was a simple one?” 

The gratitude in Regina’s eyes is at odds with the snippiness of her reply, but Emma’s long used to the other woman’s contradictory manner.  “I should be able to make it happen without your assistance, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“In that case, we’ll head back to the loft to check on Mary Margaret and the baby.”  Emma turns to smile at Henry.  “You wanna come visit your uncle?” 

Henry, bless his little teenaged heart, seems oblivious to the tension in the room. “Sure,” he agrees with a grin, jumping to his feet.  “Can we stop at Granny’s on the way?  I’m starving.”

“Maybe.”  As Emma watches (she’s trying not to stare, but it’s impossible not to peek), Regina gives Robin a stiff nod before the two of them start walking away from the rest of the group.  There’s an ocean of space between them, but they’re moving in synch as though tethered by an invisible cord, and a wave of sympathy (mixed with a hearty dash of guilt) washes over Emma. 

“Good thinking, Swan, giving them some privacy.”   Killian’s voice is close to her ear, his hand brushing hers lightly.  “It can’t be easy for either of them.”

“Speaking of privacy,” she shoots back in a loud whisper, glancing over her shoulder to see if David and Henry are getting their things together, “as soon as _we_ have some, you’re going to tell me all about the cosy little chat you apparently had with Robin Hood about me.”

He has the good grace to look sheepish.  “Aye, I suppose I will.”

Henry scoots around them, heading for the front door.  “Maybe we should wait for Mom to do her ice-melting thing,” he says with a frown, but his grandfather pats him on the shoulder.  

“Regina’s just busy with something else at the moment.”  David darts a meaningful glance at Emma and Killian in turn.  “Besides, don’t you want the fun of driving on the ice?”

Henry’s eyes light up as he tugs on his jacket.  “I can drive?”  

Emma’s emphatic _no_ is a carbon copy of her father’s, but Henry merely shrugs.  “Just checking.”

She combs her fingers through her son’s hair, trying to remember the last time he had a haircut.  _It had been at that little barbershop in New York_ , she thinks with a pang, and pushes the thought aside.  “How can you be hungry?”  Definitely a rhetorical question (he’s a teenager), but she’s a mother and these things are her undeniable right.  “I thought Regina was up all night baking?”

“Sure, but that was all tarts and pies and stuff.”  Henry gives her a toothy grin.  “I need mac and cheese.”

David pulls open the library door, and the cold air rushes in.  “I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat myself.  We can pick up something for Snow while we’re there.”

Henry pulls out his phone, his thumbs already tapping out a message. “I’ll just send Mom a text, tell her where I’ll be.”

Emma swallows hard.  If he’d said something like this a few weeks ago, he would have been referring to her, and only her.  After a year of being the only one he called _Mom_ , she can’t deny it stings a little to hear the word come so naturally to him.   But this isn’t about her, she reminds herself, it’s about Henry and his happiness, and she simply nods.  “Good idea, kiddo.”

She may have fooled Henry, but it appears she hasn’t fooled the man standing behind her.  As David and Henry step out into the snowy street, she feels Killian’s hand on her arm.  “You alright there, Swan?”

“Yep.”

“For someone whose superpower is being able to tell when someone is lying through their teeth, love, you’re remarkably bad at spinning a falsehood.”

She pauses in the doorway, letting David and Henry put some distance between them, and feels the solid warmth of Killian’s chest against her back.  She doesn’t want to get into this now, but the words are bubbling up in her throat before she can stop them. “I know most of it wasn’t real, but he was all mine for a year, and sometimes I forget that I’m back to sharing him,” she admits in a low murmur, and he sighs, his hand brushing up and down her back in a slow, comforting caress.   

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel that way.”  His tone is as soft as the fingertips trailing up and down her spine.  “I know none of this has been easy for you.”

“Some things are easier than others,” she tells him, her gaze meeting his as she turns to face him.  Putting her hand on his chest - over his heart – she smiles.  “Some things were worth coming back to Storybrooke for.”

His expression softens, his eyes glowing.  “Perhaps we could let the others take the truck while you and I walk to Granny’s.”

She should say no - her boots are not helping her in this weather - but of course she doesn’t.  “Sure.”

David gives her The Look (he may have missed out on raising her, but he’s definitely got the protective father thing down pat) when she suggests he take Henry in the truck, but he doesn’t argue. It’s only a short distance to Granny’s and they could all easily walk, but she knows David won’t want to leave the truck here, given the unpredictable weather conditions.  As the truck pulls away slowly from the kerb, Killian picks up her hand, and tucks it through the crook of his hooked arm.  “Shall we?”

As they walk (carefully) he tells about his late night conversation with Robin the previous evening.  It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he hadn’t mentioned it to her, but catches herself, knowing very well his mind had been on other things. And speaking of those other things, it’s becoming increasingly distracting to have him so close.  His arm is pressed against the side of her breast, his hip bumping against hers with every other step they take.  He smells of Granny’s lemon soap and leather, and she knows that if she slipped her hand into the deep v-neck of his shirt, his skin would be warm under her palm.

They fall into easy conversation, but she only feels marginally better after he finishes telling her about his chat with Robin. That the guy still has very strong feelings for Regina only complicates matters more, and she’s just about to say those exact words when the heel of her boot slides out from under her, sliding on the glassy ice.  She swears loudly and, just as he did the last time, Killian is quick to grab her, only this time he hauls her up against him, his arms tight around her waist as he steadies her.  “Bloody hell, Swan, we are definitely getting you a pair of snow boots,” he mutters, his voice trailing off as he lifts his head and realises (at the same moment she does) that she’s plastered against him from shoulder to knee and that his mouth is so close to hers that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. 

Awareness burns in his bright eyes as his lips part on a sharp breath, and she knows she’s not the only one who’s been thinking of skin and hands and last night and _fuck_ , her body doesn’t seem to understand that they’re standing in the middle of Main Street.  As if he’s heard her thoughts, Killian’s gaze narrows, then his hand curls around her arm.   They’re only a few feet from Granny’s front gate, but instead of leading her through the front eating area and up the stairs, he steers her expertly towards the side of the building, seemingly impervious to the ice beneath his boots. 

As soon as they’re out of sight, her back is against the outside wall of Granny’s and Killian is kissing her as though he’s a condemned man and she’s his last meal, his lips cold, his tongue hot, and the feel of him pressed against her sends a shockwave of hunger ripping through her blood.  She doesn’t remember sliding her hands beneath his coat to cup his ass, but apparently she did, because that’s where they are.  Not for the first time, she realises that last night did nothing to take the edge of the thick, heady tension between them.  If anything, she thinks as she bites back a moan at the feel of his mouth on her throat, it’s only made it worse, because now they _know._

“Emma-” He breathes her name against her skin, his beard scraping against her throat, and she feels the goosebumps rise up on every inch of her body.

“We can’t do this now,” she manages to choke out, need hollowing out her insides - he feels so, so good against her - and she wants nothing more than to let him push her back harder against the wall and remind her just _how_ good it can be between them, but she can’t.  She can’t, and they can’t, and he knows it too, because he’s stopped kissing her, his forehead pressed hard against hers, their breath mingling in tiny white puffs of heat, warming her lips. His hand has crept beneath the hem of her sweater, his thumb is making little swirls on her stomach and he may as well be touching her somewhere far more intimate, because her body’s reaction is the same.  She wants him as much as he wants her, but they don’t have time for this, not now. “Tonight, okay?”

He makes an _hmmmm_ sound in the back of his throat, then takes a slow step back from her, his face flushed.  “Perhaps we should go inside,” he mutters, his voice tight, and she nods.  David’s truck is parked out front, and she suspects he’ll be wondering where she and Killian are, and she can’t help thinking it’s a damned good thing that it’s too cold to sit outside today.

“Good idea.”

Killian doesn’t touch her as they make their way inside. In fact, he barely looks at her.  “I just need to fetch something from my room,” he tells her, his tone casual to the point of setting off her internal alarm bells.  She glances around the diner - there are a surprising amount of customers, but maybe people just want to keep things as normal as possible – and finds David and Henry sitting in their favourite booth, already engrossed in the menu.  They haven’t spotted her, and maybe that’s why her next words come out of her mouth. 

“I’ll come with you.”

He doesn’t touch or look at her as they make their way upstairs, and he’s painfully polite as he opens the door to his room and gestures for her to enter.  “So, what did you need up here?”

He kicks the door shut with his foot, and her back is against the wall almost before she finishes speaking, his kiss stealing her breath and her words.  “You, Swan,” he mutters against her lips.  “I need _you._ ”  
  
“We don’t have time,” she protests in a half-hearted whisper, but her body has other ideas, raw desire already shuddering through her veins, her spine arching like a bow to press her hips against his. 

His hand is already unbuttoning her jeans, then tugging down her zipper, his kiss nipping at her mouth.  “I beg to differ, love.”

 _Fuck._  She shoves her jeans down over her hips, her hands clumsy with the need of him.“Hurry.” 

His teeth sink into the curve of her neck, muffling his reply.  “I intend to, trust me.”

She knows he’s had hundreds of years to refine his dexterity, but it still shocks her when he slides his warm fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear to cup her gently.  She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, a choked sound of bliss trembling in her throat as her hips rise to meet his touch, her world narrowing down to the long, slender fingers that seem to instinctively sense exactly where she wants them.  
  
She knows her family is waiting on them downstairs, but it’s seriously hard for her to care when he’s touching her with an exquisite tenderness that has her fingernails digging into his leather-clad shoulders and her arching up on her toes. He tells her that she’s beautiful, that he loves her, that he couldn’t bear another moment without touching her. In between his words, he kisses her mouth and her throat, his hand both gentle and determined as his clever fingers coax the trembling promise of release to the surface again and again.  
  
Finally, his mouth covering hers with a kiss that steals her breath and her gasp of delight, he curls his fingers inside her one last time, pressing and rubbing, and she stumbles and falls in the face of an almost violent rush of sensation, heat pulsing through flesh and bone, leaving her limp and speechless.  
  
Leaning back against the wall, he pulls her against him, taking the weight of her limp body.  Kissing her softly, he lifts his hand to cup her face, his thumb gently brushing her heated cheek. Curling her arms around his neck, she buries her face against his shoulder, lazily inhaling the now-familiar scent of him, closing her eyes at the feel of his solid warmth pressed against her from breast to thigh. After a moment of nothing more taxing than amusing herself by matching her breathing to his, she lifts her head and smiles into his eyes.  
  
“So.”  
  
He grins. “So.”  
  
Wondering if her expression could possibly be as sheepish as his, she smooths her hand over the curve of his jaw, loving the prickle of his beard against her palm. She’s waited far too long to enjoy the simple pleasure of touching him, and she doesn’t plan to stop any time soon. “I’m starting to think you had this in mind from the moment we left here this morning.”

“You’re a perceptive woman, Swan.”

She looks at him, and sees the hunger burning in his bright eyes. “What about you?”

He waves her question away.  “No time, love.”

She palms the heavy ridge of his erection through his leathers, his eyes fluttering shut as her fingertips explore the shape of him. “I beg to differ.”

To his credit, he makes a token protest, but he’s already arching into her touch, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly as if to steady himself. “Your family-”

“They’ll be elbow deep in macaroni cheese by now,” she assures him, pushing him back against the flowered wallpaper.  “We so need to get you some new clothes,” she grumbles as she struggles with the fastenings of his trousers.  “It’s only been one day and I’m already sick of dealing with these ridiculous pants.”

His smile is a shaky one.  “You only seem to find them ridiculous when you’re trying to get me out of them, oh, _fuck,_ Emma-”

Sliding her hand into his now unfastened trousers, she curls her hand around the straining length of his erection, and whatever he was about to say gurgles away to nothing.  Holding his gaze with hers, she starts to move her hand, teasing and stroking, her thumb tracing the smooth tip.  They don’t have time for what she’d really like to do to him, but when in Rome - “Your turn, Captain,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his throat as she sets about tormenting him, and his head thuds against the wall as he arches into her touch.  “This won’t take long, I promise.”

She’s right.

Ten minutes later, they’re back in the diner.  Her legs have finally stopped shaking and her flushed face has greatly benefited from having been splashed with cold water, and every time Killian’s eyes meet hers in a conspiratorial glance, she feels a crazy blush threatening her cheeks once more.

“Hey, there you are.”  David greets them warmly, if a little warily, when they slide into the booth beside himself and Henry.  “We were starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

“Just dealing with the slippery conditions, mate,” Killian tells him, his face a picture of innocence itself, and Emma almost chokes on her first sip of the hot chocolate they’d ordered for her.  “You know how it is.”

“What can I get you two?”  Ruby has materialised at their booth, and maybe it’s just Emma’s imagination (or paranoia), but the other woman’s knowing smile seems to speak volumes.  “Something to boast your flagging energy, maybe?”

 _And there is it_ , Emma thinks.  “I’ll have the burger and fries, thank you,” she replies without looking at Ruby (or anyone else at the table), and hears a tiny snort of laughter as her order is scribbled down. 

“I’ll have the lunch special, lass.”  Killian obviously has either forgotten that Ruby was their mysterious condom benefactor, or he just doesn’t care.  “I’m feeling reckless today.”

Ruby levels her dark gaze at him, then at Emma, her red lips quirked in a smirk that has Emma toying with the idea of sliding beneath the table.  “Well, as long as you’re safety conscious when it really counts,” she drawls, and Emma decides there and then that she really does need to find a place of her own, because having the local werewolf (no matter how nice a person she might be) comment on your sex life really is the last straw.  “Shouldn’t be too long,” Ruby announces in a practiced sing-song tone before finally sauntering away, leaving Emma breathing out a sigh of relief.

David, thank God, is too busy leaning over the back of the booth, showing Granny pictures of baby Neal on his phone to pick up on Ruby’s subtle teasing, and Henry is occupied by his double helping of macaroni cheese.   Sitting opposite her, Killian catches her eye, the toe of his boot nudging her foot.  “You okay there, Swan?  You look a little flushed.”

“I’m _fine_.” She narrows her eyes at him, barely resisting the urge to kick him in the shin (it gets harder when he grins) before turning her attention to Henry.  “Hitting the spot?”

He hastily swallows his mouthful of food, then nods.  “Great, thanks.”

The front door is thrown open with a sudden bang, the bell overhead jingling madly.  “Guess what, everyone!”  Leroy clomps into the diner, flanked by Sneezy and Sleepy ( _crap, Tom and Walter_ , she corrects herself), their boots leaving sodden footprints on the floor.  “The ice is melting!”

Half a dozen customers scramble to their feet and head for the windows, jostling for space as they peer out into the street.   No one at _their_ booth, however, bats an eyelid, with David merely taking another bite of his sandwich before giving a nod of approval.  “Looks like Regina managed to make it happen.”

“I just hope she wasn’t inspired to produce a dozen fireballs after her chat with Loxley,” Killian murmurs as the young waitress (not Ruby, thank goodness) slides their plates in front of them, and Emma grimaces, because she was thinking exactly the same thing.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

 

~*~

 

Mary Margaret greets them with a broad smile when they return to the loft, which is positively balmy compared to their last visit.  “We’ve been defrosted!”   It’s odd to see her without the baby in her arms.  “I take it you found Gold?”

“Not exactly.”  Emma slips out of her coat and hangs it on the back of one of the kitchen table chairs.  “The defrosting was Regina’s handiwork.”

David enfolds his wife in his arms, kissing her forehead.  “We didn’t find Gold, I’m afraid.  His house and shop are locked up tight, complete with protection spells.”   He grins at Mary Margaret.  “We did bring you some lunch, though.”

She flutters her eyelashes at him. “My hero.”   She takes the plastic bag from him, smiling when she sees the contents.  “Hunter’s stew.  How did you know?”

David leans on the kitchen counter, his whole face softening as he looks at his wife, and an oddly wistful pang twists through Emma’s chest.  “Just a hunch.” 

“Hey.” Henry has come to stand beside David, his head turning from side to side as he scans the loft. “Where’s Neal?”

Emma starts at the mention of the name, then breathes out a sigh, wondering if she’s ever going to get used to _that._ Her mother smiles at Henry, her expression serene.  “He’s sleeping, and if you go poking him and wake him up, I’m going to tie you to the tree in the front yard and use you for target practice.”

Henry’s eyes widen. “I might just go play some video games.”

Emma grins.  “Good thinking, kiddo.”   As Henry clomps loudly (her mother winces) up the stairs, she looks at Killian, who is loitering near the kitchen table, looking more than a little awkward.   Her mother follows her gaze and, to Emma’s surprise, takes charge of the situation.

“Killian, you’re more than welcome to make yourself comfortable.” 

He looks startled for a few seconds, then he smiles. “That’s very kind of you, uh-”

“Mary Margaret,” her mother prompts, and Emma bites back a smile, because it’s been a while since she’s seen him look so flustered.

At that moment, David takes it upon himself to shuffle Killian off towards the television, saying something about learning about football now that he’s in their realm, and Emma breathes yet another sigh of relief.  She’s been longing to reconnect with her mother, just the two of them, for days now, but events keep conspiring to keep that from happening.   This is Storybrooke, and she knows that events will _keep_ conspiring, so an opportunity like this is one to be grabbed with both hands.   Steering her mother gently towards the high stools at the kitchen counter, Emma dishes up the hunter’s stew onto a plate (surprisingly, it’s still hot) and slides it across to her, then hands her a fork.  “You okay?”

Mary Margaret greets both the food and the question with a gracious smile.  “Just a little tired.”

Emma climbs up onto the stool next to her, her elbows on the counter. “Is being a new mother everything it’s cracked up to be?”

“There’s a lot to learn,” her mother admits, “and it’s not as though I got the chance to learn any of it when I had _you_ , so-”  She breaks off, her fork in mid-air, her expression stricken.  ‘Oh, Emma, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” There’s a lump in Emma’s throat, and she knows why she and Mary Margaret have been putting off this conversation since their return from Neverland.  The spectre of Echo Cave shimmers between them, and she’s very glad that the others aren’t around.  She looks at her mother’s face (hopeful and apprehensive all at once) and she knows she has to try. “Listen, when we were in Neverland, in Echo Cave-”

“Emma, sweetheart.”  Her mother puts down her fork (she hasn’t touched her lunch) and grabs Emma’s hand.  “I only said what I did to help rescue Neal.”   Her bright green eyes glitter with unshed tears.  “I would have never said such a thing to you otherwise.”

_What we have with her is unique, but it’s not what I wanted._

“It’s okay,” Emma repeats, although it’s not okay, not really.  She can still remember the way her stomach had dropped at her mother’s confession, the way the old fear – _not wanted, not loved, not worth coming back for_ – had risen up, feeling as though it  might choke her. “We all said what we needed to say.”   She doesn’t let herself think of Killian’s words.  That’s a memory for another time.  “It’s how you felt though, right?”

Her mother has never been one to back away from an unpleasant conversation, and now is no different.  “It was, and I’m sorry you had to find out like that.” She squeezes Emma’s hand, and Emma finds herself squeezing back. “You know, I never did hear _your_ secret.”

Emma sniffs, then releases her mother’s hand to point at her neglected lunch. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

Mary Margaret picks up her fork, but she’s not so easily convinced to drop the subject. “You don’t want to tell me?”

Emma glances in the direction of the television and the low murmur of male voices (God only knows what they’re talking about in there, she thinks) then turns to her mother.  “My secret was that when I heard Neal was alive, I was hoping that it was a trick.”

Her mother frowns.  “I don’t understand.”

Emma can feel her own eyes prickling, and she blinks the tears away. “If he’d _really_ been gone, I could stop reliving the past every time I saw him.”

Mary Margaret still looks puzzled. “I thought you loved him.”

“I did.”  The words don’t hurt anymore, and Emma wonders what that says about _her_. “I probably always will.”  She takes a steadying breath, because once this conversation is done, it will be _done_ , and they’ll never have to have it again. “The thing is, though, just being with him made my heart hurt.”

A soft smile curves her mother’s lips. “Love can do that to a girl.”

“No, not like that.”  Emma tries to keep the frustration out of her voice, but she’s not sure she’s succeeding. “Not in a ‘pining and missing someone as your other half’ kind of way.”   She hesitates, trying to find the right words to make her mother understand.  “You don’t really know the whole story of what happened between us, and that’s my fault.” She meets her mother’s gaze steadily. “But there was no going back, not for me.”

Her mother takes a few delicate bites of her stew.  “I thought you wanted to try again.”

 _No, that was what you thought,_ Emma thinks mutinously. _And Neal, and Gold, and everyone else in this damned town._

Almost everyone, she reminds herself.

“Neal hoped I would.”  Leaning forward on her elbows, she catches her mother’s eye again. “But remember when David had to come looking for me and drag me back to Granny’s? When I didn’t come and meet Neal?”  Mary Margaret nods, and Emma goes on quickly, before she loses her nerve. “That was me making my decision.”

“You said I don’t know the whole story.”  Mary Margaret puts down her fork again, and Emma has the suspicion that this lunch is never going to get eaten.   “Maybe you should tell me.”

“It’s ancient history now,” Emma demurs, but her mother’s chin lifts, her jaw firming.  It’s something Emma has seen in her own mirror many times, and the sight of it shocks her into speech.  “Okay, but just remember, you wanted to know.”

Careful to keep her voice low – she’s more concerned about Henry than she is about her father and Killian - she tells her mother everything.  How Neal had stolen the watches in Phoenix, then hidden them in the train station locker when he’d gotten spooked before jumping on a train to Portland.

“Where he met you.”

“Where he met me,” Emma agrees, wondering if she should divulge this next part. After all, her mother knows all about her jail time and she is, by her own admission, a former bandit.  “I stole the car he’d just stolen.”  She flicks her mother a wry smile.  “He was hiding in the back seat.”

Her mother looks suitably taken aback. “Not your VW?”

“The very same.”   Looking down, Emma sees that she’s twisted her fingers together. “We were together for two months, and I loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone.”

Her mother’s eyes never leave her face. “So what went wrong?”

“Everything.”

She tells her mother about that last morning, when Neal had told her about the wanted poster and how he was going to have to go to Canada.  Alone.   Mary Margaret goes to speak, but Emma waves her hand, wanting to get through this as quickly as possible.  She recites the story of the Arizona train station, raiding the locker, the triumphant celebration in the car, the plan to meet up after he’d sold the watches. 

The words all come tumbling out and, as she talks, Emma feels strangely detached, as though all this was something that happened to someone else.   When she gets to the part where the cop showed up instead of Neal, though, it’s suddenly all too real, and her voice cracks.  “August had found him when he’d gone to sell the watches.  Told him that he knew he was the Dark One’s son, and that he needed to leave me alone if I was ever going to fulfil my destiny as the Saviour.”

Her mother is staring at her.  “August?  August did that?”

“They both did.” Emma’s vision blurs. “The two of them decided it was the best thing to do.”

“Leaving you alone is one thing.” She’s seen her mother’s eyes flash with anger before, but nothing like this.  “But they let you go to jail for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“Pretty much.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes are like emeralds set on fire. “Did Neal know you were pregnant?”

Emma shakes her head, and her mother visibly calms. “No.”

They sit in silence for a moment, then Mary Margaret leans across and brushes Emma’s cheek with her thumb, making her realise with a start that her face was damp with tears. “All this time, Neal was the one who had broken your heart.”

“Yep.”  Emma swipes her nose with the back of her hand.  “He taught me that the only way not to let people hurt you is not to give them the chance to let you down.”

Her mother presses her lips together into a tight line, her eyes filled with regret. “And I kept trying to push you back together.”

Emma shrugs. “You didn’t know.”   She takes a deep breath. “We made our peace in the end, and now I really can tell Henry that his father died trying to save us all.” 

“Does Henry know the whole story?”

“Some of it.”  Emma frowns, realising she hasn’t discussed Neal with Henry since his real memories returned, something she’ll have to remedy as soon as she can. “Our year in New York filled in some of the gaps, but not all of them.”   She rubs her fingers against her temples, suddenly feeling more than a little weary.  “God knows what I’ll say to him about August, though.”

Mary Margaret smiles at her. “Not easy being a mom, is it?” 

Emma’s chest tightens at the tenderness in the other woman’s voice. “You know, having a mother, it’s something I’m still getting used to.”

Her mother pats her arm.  “We’ll get there.”

“I know.”  Gazing around the room, Emma spies Henry’s book on the kitchen table.  The last time she’d seen it, it was open on the coffee table in front of her mother, and she can’t resist the urge to ask.  “Did you read Henry’s book?”

One of Mary Margaret’s dark eyebrows arches.  “As a matter of fact, I did.”   She takes a few more bites of stew, then pushes the plate away.  “I’ve been thinking about Princess Leia and Prince Charles a lot this afternoon.”

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Emma’s face grows warm.  “You know the whole ‘getting used to having a mother’ thing I just mentioned?”

Her mother looks nonplussed, but she still gives Emma an encouraging smile.  “What about it?”

Emma hesitates, because what she’s about to say is probably going to sound ridiculous, but she’s going to say it anyway. “This might be weird, but I could really use my friend Mary Margaret right now, rather than my mom.”

Sitting up straight, Mary Margaret puts her hands in her lap and looks at Emma attentively.  “Shoot.”

Emma blinks, because it really is like she’s looking at Mary Margaret Blanchard, rather than Snow White. “Okay, here’s the deal.  This thing with Killian, it’s new and it’s still a little weird, but it’s what I want.”    

She holds her breath, waiting, but to her surprise, her mother only nods calmly. “You know, I remember the way he looked at you back in the Enchanted Forest.”

Emma frowns. “You mean when we were Charles and Leia?”

“No, when we first met him.”  Mary Margaret’s gaze is steady and clear and maybe sees a little too much. “He looked at you like a man blinking at the sunlight after he’s been working too long in the mines.”

Emma stares at her.  “You’re kidding me with this, right?”

Her mother merely smiles.  “And when he and Cora locked us in Rumplestiltskin’s cell, he wasn’t just angry, he was hurt, and it was directed solely at you.”  Mary Margaret shrugs.  “It was pretty obvious he had his eye on you, for whatever reason.”

It seems her mother had noticed a lot more than Emma had given her credit for, and there’s no longer any point in denying it. “We’d connected.”  She hides behind the overused saying, because no amount of words can possibly explain the instant and frightening pull she’d felt towards Cora’s pirate henchman. “And it scared the crap out of me.”  She has never made this admission to another living soul, and she feels as though her whole body is growing lighter with every word.  “The problem wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, it was that I did. I wanted him to be on my side so badly, to not let me down, but I was afraid.”  She glances towards the other end of the loft, knowing her father and Killian won’t be engrossed in the television forever. “So I betrayed him before he had the chance to betray _me_.”  It hurts to say it out loud, but it’s a welcome sting. “Chained him up and left him behind with Anton, all because I was afraid.” 

Her mother looks as though she’s trying to decide between several inappropriate questions, then she just smiles. “I take it he’s forgiven you for chaining him up?”

This time, she can feel the damned blush creeping up the back of her neck.  “You could say that.”

The loud knock on the front door of the loft puts an end to the conversation, and Emma can’t help but be relieved.  She’s reached her limit of soul-baring today, and if that’s Regina at the door, then maybe they can finally make some progress in the hunt for Storybrooke’s latest visitor.  Jumping off the high stool, she motions for her mother to stay put.  “It’s okay, I’ll get it.”  She pulls open the door, and the last person she expected to see standing in the doorway gives her a brisk nod.

“Good afternoon, Miss Swan.” Mr Gold bares his teeth in a smile, his gaze drifting over her shoulder into the apartment behind her, his voice as cool as the rapidly melting snow outside. “I understand you needed to see me.”

It takes a few seconds for Emma to find her voice.  “Uh, yeah. We have a little problem.”

“This is Storybrooke, dearie.” Gold’s dark gaze meets hers with a sharp snap, and she has to stop herself from flinching.  “You know as well as I that there’s no such thing as a _little_ problem.”

“Would you like to come in?”  Mary Margaret calls out from behind Emma, and Gold tilts his head.

“Not particularly, but I shall.”   He steps into the apartment, then turns to Emma, his hands clasped in front of him.  “Now, Miss Swan.”  His expression has changed, becoming something darker, something more unreadable. It’s Rumplestilkskin’s face, Emma realises, and this time she does take a step back.  He notices, of course, and his dark eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Tell me _all_ about your little problem.”

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter, the little story that was originally going to be two chapters long is finally finished. I haven’t wrapped everything up in a neat little bow, but that was never the plan. I’m sure I’ll come back to this universe from time to time in the future, but for now, it’s done and dusted. :) Thank you all so, so much for reading along and making this one so much fun to write. Special thanks to my bestie scribblecat for all her behind-the-scenes work.

 

~*~

 

 

Killian watches the battle unfold on the small viewing screen, trying to make sense of the strategic movements in play.  This particular ball sport is called football, apparently, and he takes careful note of the Prince’s obvious enjoyment of it.  He’s a man in love, after all, and he’s not above using every trick in the book to win favour with Emma’s father.

After five minutes or so, he can no longer contain his curiosity, and asks the question burning on his tongue. “Is it customary for them to wear so much armour?”

David chuckles at the question.  “I know, right?”   He gestures towards the helmeted figures running up and down the paddock.  “I’d love to see how they’d manage a fire breathing dragon.”

Killian scoffs quietly at that. “Or a jousting field.”

They share a complicit grin, and Killian can scarcely fathom that he’s here, sharing such a moment of camaraderie with the Prince.  Given their colourful history, he can hardly be blamed for thinking that perhaps he’s merely imagining this strange turn of events. 

_You’re nothing but a pirate._

He pushes the bitter memory from his mind, focusing instead on the soft sound of female voices drifting out of the kitchen area.  He is pleased that Emma has seized the chance to speak with her mother, although he can’t help wondering if he is one of their topics of conversation.  The prospect is rather unnerving, to say the least. 

The game being played out before them seems to reach some kind of crescendo, bringing the Prince to literally sit on the edge of his seat, and the knock on the door doesn’t register at first.   He hears Emma’s booted footsteps, then the voice that still has the power to haunt his nightmares.

“Good afternoon, Miss Swan. I understand you needed to see me.”

Killian finds himself on his feet without conscious thought.  Beside him, the Prince has also risen, the curious sporting event on the television forgotten as they hear Emma speak. “Uh, yeah. We have a little problem.”

“This is Storybrooke, dearie.” Gold sounds amused and bored at the same time. “You know as well as I that there’s no such thing as a little problem.”

David glances at him as Mary Margaret asks their visitor to come in, and by tacit agreement they silently make their way towards the kitchen.

“Not particularly, but I shall.”  Again, Gold’s voice is brimming with ennui.  “Now then, Miss Swan.  Tell me all about your little problem.”

Emma shuts the door behind Gold, her brows pulled together in a frown. “Are you seriously telling me that you didn’t notice that the town was buried under three feet of snow and ice overnight?”

“I’m a newly married man, dearie.  I’ve been a trifle preoccupied.”  He gives Emma a smile that can only be described as smug. “So perhaps you’ll humour me and be quick about spitting out what it is that you so desperately wished to discuss with me.” Over Emma’s shoulder, his gaze finds Killian’s with an unnerving accuracy.  “I’ve learned it’s not wise to leave a wife to her own devices for too long.”

Killian returns his gaze unflinchingly.  Anger might be searing a hole in his temper, but he takes a deep breath, knowing that allowing the Dark One to antagonise him will prove nothing and help matters even less.  Emma glances behind her, her eyes following the path of Gold’s regard, and she turns back to give the older man a hard look.  “Bitch at him another time, okay?”

At Emma’s invitation, Gold takes up residence at the small kitchen table, waving away Mary Margaret’s offer of coffee. “Thank you, but no.  As I’ve already said, I’ve other places to be today.”

Emma slips into a chair across from him, her elbows on the table top. “Okay, I know you don’t remember, but when we fell through Zelena’s portal and went back in time, you helped us." 

“I did?”  Gold’s glance flicks from Emma to himself, his scepticism obvious.  “That sounds most unlike me.”

Emma huffs out a frustrated breath. “You took a memory potion so you wouldn’t remember any of it.”

“After you locked us in your vault without any means of escape,” Killian can’t help adding, and amusement suddenly flickers in Gold’s dark eyes.

“Oh, well, that sounds much more like me.”   He turns pointedly away from Killian and David, focusing on Emma once more.  “This is all very interesting, but it’s not a good enough reason to interrupt a man’s honeymoon, so if you’ll excuse me -”

Emma raises her voice, halting Gold in the act of pushing back his chair. “We think something in your vault might have followed us back to Storybrooke.”

Gold stills, his expression becoming blank, unreadable.  “There’s only one way that would have been possible.”   His eyes narrow, his gaze sliding across to study Killian once more.  “And that’s if you two meddled in something that was clearly none of your concern, not to mention vastly beyond your understanding.”

Killian can feel Emma’s eyes on him, and he knows she’s worried he’s going to snap back, and that alone is enough to prompt him to hold his tongue.   To his relief, David picks up the conversational mantel.  “We’re not interested in playing the blame game, Gold.”

The Dark One eyes the Prince steadily.  “Are you sure?  Because it seems to me that you’re all quite eager to hold me responsible for something that may or may not have come from my vault.”

“The only thing we touched was an urn.”  Emma cuts in, and Killian presses his lips together at her choice of words. We.  “It had been shoved into an unlocked cabinet.”

Gold’s lips curve in a humourless smile. “You expect me to recall a single trinket out of the thousands of items stored in a vault I last visited almost three decades ago?”

Emma gives Killian a beseeching glance, and he takes a step forward, his gaze trained on Gold’s face. “The urn was made of some kind of metal, and was about this tall.”  He gestures with both hand and hook.  “Two handles, curved lines.”

A tiny flicker of something ripples across the other man’s face, but he merely smiles apologetically.  “I can’t say I recall it.”

Emma exchanges a quick glance with her mother, as if for reassurance.  It appears to work, because Emma lifts her chin and fixes Gold with a resolute stare.  “Okay, just tell me this - did you keep anything, whether it was a spell or a person, in your vault that could have turned this town into a freezer in the blink of an eye?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, dearie.”  Dismissing Emma with a flick of his head, he turns to Mary Margaret, offering her a warm smile.  “How is the new Prince?”

Mary Margaret frowns, obviously taken aback by the change of tack.  “He’s fine, but-”

“Just answer the question, Gold.”  Emma’s father has, just as obviously, had enough of their visitor’s diversionary tactics.  “I know you.  You never forget a damned thing unless you want to.” 

“As I’ve already said, my dear Prince Charming, I can’t help you.”  He glances at Killian, then at Emma, and once again there is a glimmer of something unnameable in his eyes. “But I should remind you that I wasn’t always the Dark One.”  He smooths his left hand down the front of his waistcoat, his new wedding band gleaming. “That particular castle has had many occupants by that particular name over the centuries.”

Emma frowns, her expression uncannily like her mother’s.  “Are you saying that you might have inherited whatever it was that might have followed us back to Storybrooke?”

“What I’m saying, Miss Swan, is that I can’t help you.” Gold rises to his feet, his movements economical and deliberate, and Killian feels the same sour sting in the back of his throat that always accompanies the sight of this man.  Reluctant truce or not, he is still the Crocodile, his black heart filled with both cowardice and the love of power, and that will never change.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my wife.”

And with that, he’s gone, the front door slamming behind him, leaving behind an air of frustration and an odd sense of relief.  “He’s lying,” Emma declares in a flat voice, and her father sighs.

“I agree.”

Killian shrugs, doing his best to tamp down his own irritation.  “I’m sure we’re all greatly surprised.”

Emma leans against the kitchen counter, defeat etched on her lovely face.  “I don’t know what I expected, but I thought maybe since he’d gotten married to Belle, he might be-” She hesitates, her gaze darting to Killian, and he hastens to break the suddenly awkward silence.   They all know what had occurred the last time Gold had been married, after all.

“Believe me, love,” he tells her quietly. “The Dark One’s matrimonial state matters little when it comes to furthering his own ambitions.”

The sound of footsteps on the staircase has them falling into a conspiratorial silence, and soon Henry is back with them, his portable telephone clutched in his hand. “Mom wants to know if I’m coming home tonight.”  The lad looks at Emma, his frown an identical match for that of his birth mother’s. “She sounded like she had a cold.”

Emma swears under her breath, and Mary Margaret gives her daughter a curious glance.  “Is she alright?”

“When we left the library, Robin had just turned up, wanting to talk to her,” Emma mutters, shoving her hands into her back pockets.  “Doesn’t sound as though it went too well.”

“Or maybe,” her mother counters with a hopeful smile, “it’s just a cold.”

Emma combs her fingers through her son’s hair. “If that’s what you want to do, kiddo, Killian and I can drop you off on our way to Granny’s.”  Her parents’ heads turn towards Emma in perfect unison, their faces a picture of mild censure, and Killian feels as though his intentions regarding their daughter are suddenly branded onto his forehead.  Emma, however, proves undaunted in the face of silent parental interrogation. “You guys need some space,” she points out, her tone firm despite her smile, and her father clears his throat loudly.

“I might just go pay a visit to my son.”  He grins at Henry.  “Want to come say hello?”

“Sure.”   Emma watches as her son leaves the room with his grandfather, then turns to Killian with a smile.  “I might go say hello too.”

She’s slipped away before he can protest, leaving him alone with the indomitable Snow White.  Recalling Emma’s recent words to mind - _trust me, it’s not my father you’ll have to win over_ – he finds himself rubbing the back of his neck as he searches for a polite conversational opening.  “You’re well, I trust, milady?”

“Relax, Hook,” Mary Margaret returns easily, sitting down in the chair recently vacated by the Dark One.  “I’m not going to bite you.”

There is no polite rejoinder to that remark, so he simply nods and perches on one of the high stools at the kitchen counter.  “I hesitate to echo the Dark One, but I hope the young Prince is thriving?”

Her face lights up.  “He’s a joy.”  

“Quite the handsome babe, from memory.”

“David and I do seem to produce beautiful children.”  Emma’s mother’s smile takes on a knowing air.  “But you already know that.”

He feels twin spots of heat touch his cheeks. What was it about this woman that made him feel like a youth still wet behind the ears?  It seems her beauty isn’t the only thing she’s passed onto her daughter, and he decides honesty is his wisest avenue. “Aye, that I do.”

Her face softens at his admission. “You know, Henry seems to enjoy spending time with you.”

“The feeling is quite mutual.” He can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face.  “He’s an adventurous lad and no mistake.”

Mary Margaret studies him carefully for a moment.  “You never had a child of your own?”

Thinking of Baelfire, his heart twists, and he finds himself diving behind his usual irreverent answer to that particular question. “None that I’m aware of, milady.”

Emma’s mother gives him an exasperated look. “I take it that’s a no?”

He waves an apologetic hand, making a silent resolution to think before he speaks in future. “I’ve cared for a child as if he were my own, but I have no blood offspring.”  Seeing the spark of curiosity in her face, it seems only polite to elaborate. “Milah’s lad, Baelfire,” he explains, and realisation dawns in her eyes.

“Neal.”

“Aye.”  There’s no avoiding the subject now, although he definitely intends to keep the details vague. “Happenstance brought us together when he was around Henry’s age.”

“Does Emma know?”  He merely looks at her (sadly, it appears he has a long way to go before he earns this woman’s trust) and she seems to give herself a shake.  “Of course she does,” she goes on quickly, answering her own question, but he still feels inclined to speak on his behalf.

“Yes, she does.”  He presses his hands flat on the kitchen counter, the surface cool beneath his too-warm palms.  “I keep very few secrets from your daughter.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes search his for a long moment. ”That’s a good place to start with someone like Emma,” she finally tells him, her tone wistful.  “You seem to have learned that lesson faster than a lot of people.”

He has no clue as to whether she’s referring to herself or not, but he feels the need to reassure her. “I wouldn’t presume to-”

She looks at him as though he’s got naught but wet sand and barnacles between his ears. “Just - just keep her safe.”   Her pale throat works as she swallows, as if the words have cost her something to utter. “That’s all I ask.”

It’s never been easier to make a promise.  “Until my dying breath, milady.”

Her eyes widen at his words, but they are both saved from further discussion by the sound of Emma’s boots on the hardwood floor.  Her reappearance breaks the odd tension in the room, and he belatedly realises how stiffly he’s holding himself.  “You two look serious,” Emma remarks, looking from her mother to him.  “Everything okay?”

He smiles at her, but decides to let Mary Margaret answer.  “We’re all good.”   Beaming at her daughter, she neatly changes the subject.  “So, did your brother spit up on you?”

“Nope.” Emma laughs, her eyes bright with amusement. “David, however, is currently changing his shirt.”

He joins in the resulting merriment, his heart seeming to swell in his chest as he looks at Emma revelling in the company of her family.  It is a vastly different feeling from the last time he’d stood and watched her bask in the warmth of her family’s affection (when he’d been no more than a few feet away and yet felt as though he may as well have been in another realm) and he soaks it up, holding it close.    

“Listen, I was thinking that we might drop Henry back to Regina’s, then do a quick patrol around town before dinner.”  Emma brushes the back of his hand with her fingertips, the chaste touch seeming to warm his skin through his clothing. “Just to make sure no one’s still snowed in.”

“Good idea, Swan.”  He does his best not to sound too enthused by the prospect of leaving the loft, but their brief dalliance at Granny’s has made it almost impossible to stop thinking of the feel of her - so slick and warm - in his hand, her soft exhalation of completion as she’d trembled in his arms.  “Perhaps we should check on Loxley and his family, while we’re about it.”

Mary Margaret frowns at the mention of Robin, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “I hope he didn’t make things worse by going to talk to Regina.”

Emma sighs.  “Well, it’s not as though she’ll confide in me about it.”  As if a light has just gone on in her thoughts, she turns to her mother.  “She’d confide in you, though.” 

Her mother drums her fingernails on the table top. “I guess I could call her.”  She offers Emma a wry smile.  “Someone needs to tell her about Gold’s visit, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not going to improve her mood.” A frown plucks at Emma’s brow.  “I know Henry’s fine with staying the night over there, but if she’s really upset-” Breaking off, she throws Killian a look of mute appeal, and he reaches out to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“For all her Majesty’s failings, love, she adores the boy.”  Catching her eye, he gives her a reassuring smile.  “He might end up with temporary dyspepsia from being force fed too many sweet pies, but he’ll be fine.”

Her green gaze narrows, but he sees the smile tugging at her lips.  “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?”

“Three hundred odd years of practice, Swan.” Sliding off the high stool, he gives her a wink as his boots hit the wooden floor.  “I’m accomplished at many things.” Perhaps he should curb his tongue in front of her mother, he thinks, but the sight of the blush creeping across Emma’s face is reward enough.  

 

 

~*~

 

“Promise me something, okay?”   Sitting in her car outside Regina’s place, she reaches an arm out through the rolled down window to rub a smudge of God-knows-what off her son’s chin.  “If anything weird happens, you call me.”

Henry grins at her.  “Do you mean normal weird or Storybrooke weird?”

She gives him the exasperated mother look she’d spent a year perfecting in New York. “Both.”  

Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he peers into the interior of the car.  “Hey, Killian?”

Killian leans across her, his hook resting on the back of her seat.  “What can I do for you, lad?”

“We are going sailing again soon, right?”

Emma’s throat tightens at the raw hope in her son’s voice, and she’s grateful for her passenger’s quick reply.  “As soon as I can find a suitable vessel to commandeer,” he begins, and Emma pinches his leg, hard.  “Or should I say,” he goes on without missing a beat, “as soon as I speak to the harbour master about hiring a suitable vessel, we’ll be ready for another adventure on the high seas.”

Henry looks as though he’s just beaten a particular brutal level on his favourite video game.  “Awesome.”

Emma watches him as he walks around the car and towards Regina’s front path, noting with a pang that he seems to growing an inch taller with every passing day. 

“He’ll be fine, love.”

“I know.” Her hand is still on his leg, and she takes the opportunity to give his knee a grateful pat. “It’s just I feel like I’m backsliding.” She sighs as she restarts the car, the familiar throaty rattle of the engine vaguely soothing.  “Things have never been easy between me and Regina, but things were better after I came back from New York.”  She pulls away from the kerb, grateful that she doesn’t have to negotiate any icy roads, and tosses him a quick glance.  “But the whole Maid Marian thing has put the two of us right back at square one.”

“From what you and your lad have told me about your arrival in this town, Swan, I doubt matters will regress that far.” He quirks one dark eyebrow at her.  “Do you truly believe Regina will attempt to poison you into an eternal coma a second time?”

“When you put it like that, I guess not,” she mutters, checking her rear view mirror.  Since Regina had dealt with the ice and snow, the traffic on the roads has greatly increased, at least by Storybrooke standards.  “Check the docks first while it’s still light?”

He agrees with her suggestion readily (it seems he’s more than happy to be spontaneous if the Wicked Witch of the West isn’t involved) and they’re soon walking along the wooden expanse of Storybrooke’s dock.  She soon realises she has no idea what she’s looking for, and glances hopefully at her companion.  “Everything look okay to you?”

He stares at the seemingly endless row of boats, his gaze narrowed against the late afternoon sun.  “No slipped moorings that I can see.”  He flashes her a mischievous grin. “That there are no townsfolk running about like fowl with their heads cut off is also a promising sign.”

“Hey, I know you.”  They both turn at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.  A middle-aged man dressed in wet-weather gear is standing outside the bait shop.  He scowls at Killian, his meaty hands tightening their grip on the rope he’s carrying. “You were with that witch who turned me into a fish!”

Startled, Emma looks at Killian, and knows immediately that the disgruntled fisherman is telling the truth.  Sighing, Killian pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then gives the man a uncomfortable smile.  “My humblest apologies, mate.”

Still scowling, the man takes a step towards them, and Emma puts up one hand.  “Hold up a sec, okay?”  She looks at Killian, knowing she’s about to ask an extremely rhetorical question. “Cora?”

Killian grimaces. “I’m afraid so.”

She moves towards the stranger, deliberately putting herself between him and Killian.  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says with a bright smile, and the man’s frowns eases.

“Joe.”  His voice is gruff. “Joe Andrews.”

She taps the badge on her belt with her fingertips. “I’m Sheriff Swan, Joe.” She can literally feel Killian fidgeting behind her back, as if he’s getting ready to step in, and makes a point of talking quickly. “I’m really sorry you got caught up in Cora’s net,” she stops then - because could her foot be any more in her mouth? – and ignores the almost inaudible chuckle from behind her.  “And I’m glad to see that you’re back to your old self now.”

The man glowers over her shoulder, his hands worrying the rope he’s carrying, then his pale blue eyes meet Emma’s.  “Don’t think I’ll ever be back to my own self, miss.”  He’s obviously making an effort to be polite, and Emma gives him an encouraging smile.  “Once you’ve been a fish, I reckon there’s not a man alive who could go back to being a fisherman.”

Pretty sure her own expression resembles that of a stunned fish right now, she gives herself a mental shake. “I guess that would be a little weird.”

“My brother runs the bait shop now.”  Joe shrugs, thick shoulders shifting. “I just don’t have the stomach for it anymore.”

“What do you for a crust now, mate?”  Killian has come to stand beside her, his gaze trained on the other man’s face. 

And just like that, the tension is again thrumming in the air, Cora’s former victim glowering at Killian.  “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

Killian looks as confused as Emma feels. “Definitely not, I assure you.”

The other man huffs, his breath visible in the still cool air.  “Me and the brother, we swapped jobs, you see.”  He darts an almost shy glance at Emma.  “I’m the baker now.”

“That’s great.” Emma bites the inside of her mouth to keep her smile from becoming a laugh.  “Well, it’s been good to meet you, but we should keep going.”  She doesn’t look at Killian.  “Make sure everyone’s doing okay after the snow storm.”

Joe the Baker gives her a sceptical look. “Snow storm?”

“Yep.”  She starts to back away, silently willing Killian to follow her lead.  “You take care now.”

She manages to keep it together until they’re back in the car, then she doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch Cora’s former henchman.  “A fish?  Are you kidding me?”

“I had nothing to do with it, love.”  He buckles his seatbelt with one hand, then looks at her with wide blue eyes.  “The chap asked if he could assist us, and before I knew it he was the proud owner of a fine pair of gills, flapping about on the dock.”

She can’t help rolling her eyes as she starts the car.  “Given what I know about Cora, I’m amazed she didn’t gut and fillet him at the same time.”

“Well,” he mutters, as if the admission is cause for embarrassment. “I may have booted him off the dock into the water before she got the chance.”

She tosses him a quick glance as the car pulls away from the docks. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He shrugs.  “Cora’s brand of power was rather indiscriminate.”   He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. “I preferred to keep my pursuit of revenge more specific.”

She drops the subject.  There’s still so much they need to learn about each other’s pasts, but some topics are easier than others, and the time he spent with Cora isn’t something to be casually discussed in the cramped confines of her car. To be honest, she suspects alcohol might be required for that one.  “Rabbit Hole next?”

He grins at her, all awkwardness gone. “I’m at your service, Sheriff Swan.”

They spend the next hour cruising the streets of Storybrooke. To her amusement, he constantly hums along with the radio, even though she knows he can’t possibly be familiar with the songs in question.  “You’ve got an ear for music,” she tells him when they finally pull up in front of Granny’s, and his casual shrug can’t hide his obvious pleasure at her comment.

“I’m a pirate, love.” He waggles his dark eyebrows at her suggestively. “I know many a bawdy tune, should you wish to expand your repertoire.”

He’s a ridiculous man at times, but she can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up in her throat.  “Maybe some other time.”

He watches curiously as she grabs her overnight bag out of the back seat, and she realises he’d been too busy talking to Henry about ‘those DVD things’ when they’d left the loft to notice what she’d brought with her.  “You’ve come prepared, Swan.”

She feels heat tint her face at the knowing glint in his bright eyes.  “Call me crazy, but I’m not a fan of wearing the same underwear two days in a row.”

The knowing glint in his eyes becomes something dark and wicked. “You could always go without, love.”

“With you around?”  She’s pleased by the bravado in her voice, because her knees seemed to have turned to water. “I think that would be called tempting fate.”

He laughs at that, the sound rich and warm, and she can’t help smiling.  Her smile widens when he reaches for the bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder.  “Let me, Swan.”  He gives her a wink. “Can’t give the she-wolf even more fodder now, can we?”

While he whisks her bag upstairs to his room, she finds herself chatting to Archie at the long counter in the diner.  He’s in the middle of an early dinner, but looks pleased to see her.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Henry.” As always, his voice is soft and comforting, and she feels the usual compulsion to blurt out all her secrets. “How he is dealing with the return of his real memories?”

“He’s happy to be back, I know that.” She climbs up onto the stool next to him.  “If there’s anything worrying him, he hasn’t told me.”

“He’s growing up,” Archie observes mildly. “Teenagers do tend to be more secretive, especially about their emotions.”

Emma nods gratefully at Ruby, who is making the time-honoured ‘do you want a drink?’ motion behind the counter.  “Well, I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she tells him, then pauses, decided now is the time to mention something that’s been plucking at her thoughts ever since she’d made the decision to stay. “I’m been thinking, though-” He looks at her expectantly. “What about school? Henry was doing so well in New York.”

Archie’s smile is one of approval.  “Classes begin again in a few weeks, I believe.”  He takes a sip of his coffee. “After Zelena was defeated, the PTA held a meeting and decided it would be the best thing for the children if some kind of normalcy was restored.”  He raises his eyebrows at her.  “As normal as things can be around here, of course. The school board needs to deal with the issue that this town is going to need a high school now that the curse is broken.”

Smiling, Emma shakes her head (because seriously, this place is still capable of weirding her out) then freezes, because she’s just noticed the occupants of the end booth. Robin is sitting opposite his wife and son, and while he’s smiling at something Roland is saying, his body language is anything but relaxed and happy.

When Archie speaks, Emma knows he’s followed her gaze. “Ah, now there’s a complicated situation,” he murmurs, and there’s more than a touch of sadness in his tone.

“You can say that again,” she mutters.  “Any suggestions?”

As always, Archie doesn’t hide behind bland euphemisms.  “You did a good deed, Emma.”  When she turns to look at him, he gives her a warm smile. “Whatever is meant to be will happen, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for saving a life.”

“I’m trying,” she admits, taking the cup of hot chocolate from Ruby with a nod of thanks. “But you know Regina.”

Archie’s wide mouth turns down slightly.  “Indeed I do,” he begins, then pauses, his attention drawn by the man who has come to stand on Emma’s other side.  “Captain.”

Emma bites back a sigh. _What is this, ‘run into everyone that Killian’s crossed in the past’ day?_ She knows this is his battle to fight, though, and she busies herself by taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

Killian clears his throat. “I’m very pleased to see you’ve recovered from your visit to my ship, Doctor.”  He hesitates, then holds out his hand. “I believe I owe you a grave apology.”

Emma’s throat tightens, because he sounds as much embarrassed as he does repentant. She knows how hard this is for him.  He’d once told her that he’s not a man in the habit of apologising, and she realises (not for the first time) what he’s prepared to do in order to stay in Storybrooke.

To stay with _her._

She gives Archie a look of mute appeal, and he doesn’t let her down.  Putting down his fork, he takes Killian’s outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake. “Welcome back to Storybrooke, Captain. I hear you and Emma had quite the adventure in the past.”

“Aye, that we did.”  Relief swimming in his eyes, he looks at Emma.  “She’s a bloody hero, this one.”

The tension broken, Emma finds it easy to laugh off the praise. “It was a team effort,” she shoots back, and he grins. 

“If you say so, love.”

Uncomfortably aware that Archie is watching them with bright, all-too-seeing eyes, she makes their excuses.  “We’ll let you finish your dinner in peace,” she tells him, and he nods.

“If you and Henry want to talk, you know where I am.”

Killian waits until they’re settled in a booth before he speaks again.  “What’s that about you and your lad needing to talk?”

She stares down at the menu, wondering if she’s hungry enough to bother ordering.  “Archie wanted to know how Henry was dealing with having two sets of memories in his head.”

He frowns.  “He seems contented enough to me.”

“Me too, but that doesn’t mean he is, if you know what I mean.” 

“I do.”  He bumps his knee against hers beneath the table.  “We all have our secrets, I’m afraid.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, softening her words with a smile. “Some of us more than others.”

To her disappointment, he doesn’t take the bait. “I’m glad you had the chance to spend time with your mother,” he remarks as he studies the menu, and she grins at the unspoken question in his words.

“Go on, ask me.”  She bumps his knee right back. “I know it’s killing you.”

He turns the menu over, apparently fascinated by the list of beverages on offer. “It’s not my place to pry, Swan.”

_Oh, for God’s sake._ “If you’re wondering if I talked to her about you, the answer is yes, I did.”  She puts down her own menu, knowing she’ll just end up ordering a serve of fries anyway. “I didn’t want things to be weird.”

His smile isn’t exactly a smug one, but it’s a close thing. He fidgets with the plastic menu for a moment, then his expression changes, becoming thoughtful. “Did you speak to her of the man in New York?”

Emma blinks, because that was the last thing she expected him to say. “ _No_.”

“Perhaps you should, love.”  His bright blue eyes search her face.  “Speak of him, I mean.”

Emma presses her lips into a tight line. She _so_ doesn’t want to have this conversation. “To you?”

“No,” he assures her quickly, and she feels the press of his knee against hers beneath the table once again. “You need the ear of someone with less of a vested interest, perhaps like the good Doctor Hopper there.”

She knows what he’s saying makes sense, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling as though he’s trying to palm her off. “You don’t want to hear about him?”

“He broke your heart, Swan.”  The short, simple words hang in the space between them. “I fear I would be rather biased towards campaigning for his swift and painful demise, rather than being an objective listener.”

Her pulse quickens at the barely restrained anger in his voice, and there’s no answer to _that_ statementshe’s comfortable giving him in a public place.  “Let’s just eat, okay?”

If he feels rebuffed, he doesn’t show it.  He’s carefully polite with Granny as they order, and is the model dinner companion.  It’s just after eight o’clock when they head upstairs.  He insists she use the bathroom down the hall first, loading her up with two clean towels and a new bar of Granny’s lemon soap.  When she returns to his room, her hair pulled back in a careless ponytail and her skin flushed with heat, feeling relaxed to the point of being ready to drop into bed, his eyes widen, and he seems to be fighting a personal war with himself. 

Maybe it’s her choice of sleepwear that’s got him on edge, she muses.  She has to admit, the boxer shorts and white tank are a little more skimpy than she’d normally wear, but she’d been in a rush while she was packing her bag.  (Also, she didn’t see the point when it was highly likely her clothes would be coming off sooner rather than later.) 

Carefully keeping his distance, he gathers up a change of clothes and another clean towel, literally edging his way out of the room around her.  When the door shuts behind him, she can almost hear his sigh of relief, and can’t help grinning smugly.  Maybe she should have put a bra on after her shower, she thinks, but where’s the fun in that?

While he’s gone (she smiles at the sight of his hook, placed carefully on top of the chest of drawers) Emma sprawls on the bed in her makeshift pyjamas and sends a text to Henry.  He responds quickly, telling her that Regina seems fine and that they’ve been watching movies and eating popcorn.  Breathing out her own sigh of relief, she asks if he’d like to have breakfast tomorrow morning, and is answered with a grinning, nodding emoticon holding a knife and fork. 

Estimating she’s got about five minutes before Killian returns, she calls the loft, and is pleased when her mother answers. She’s not sure she’s ready to talk to her father from Killian’s bed. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Hi!”  Even over the phone line, she can picture her mother’s bright smile.  “Everything okay?”

“Yep, just checking in.”  In the background, she can hear her father’s soothing voice and the sound of her baby brother fussing. “Did you speak to Regina?”

“I did.”   She hears a muffled noise, as though her mother has put her hand over the phone, then the line is clear again.  “Sorry, your father is just trying to get Neal to settle.”

Emma grins at the mental picture. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s a natural.” The pride in her mother’s voice is palpable.  “I called Regina after dinner, and she seemed a little down, but nothing like David says she was when you met her at the library.”

Emma fights the urge to chew on her thumbnail.  “Did she say anything about Robin?”

“Not really.”  Mary Margaret’s tone is subdued. “She just said he’d been worried about her and that they’d talked for a while.”

It’s better than nothing, Emma decides.  “Did you tell her about Gold?”

Her mother sighs.  “Yes, and she’s just as frustrated as we are.”  

“So, what’s our next step?”  She knows by asking she’s as good as admitting she’s out of ideas, but she doesn’t care.  “We keep badgering Gold to tell us what he knows?”

“Regina said she’s going to do a sweep of the town tomorrow, see if she can pinpoint the source of that freezing spell.”

“Okay.”  She feels stymied by their lack of progress, but clearly there is nothing else she can do tonight. Storybrooke is no longer frozen solid, and Gold seemed (whether he was being truthful or not) unconcerned by whatever it is that might have been kept in his vault.  “Want to have lunch tomorrow?”

“That would be great.”  She can hear the pleasure in her mother’s voice, and feels a small pang of guilt that she’s not there with them this evening.  “It’ll be good for Neal to get some fresh air.”

After saying her goodbyes, Emma puts her phone on the bedside drawers, wondering if it’s too soon for her parents to bestow a catchy nickname on her new brother. 

When Killian returns - her own stomach tightens at the sight of his damp hair and flushed skin, and she understands his reaction so much better now - they end up sitting on his bed, their legs stretched out in front of them, their backs against the bedhead, sharing sips from the bottle of Caribbean spiced rum she’d smuggled into her bag from her father’s liquor stash at the loft.  “I believe you promised me one or two stories this evening, Swan,” he says lightly, his fingertips grazing the inside of her left arm from elbow to wrist, making her shiver.  “Don’t think I can be so easily distracted by your lovely bare legs and deliberate lack of corset.”

Smiling, she glances down at her tattooed wrist, and takes a deep breath. “I was sixteen, and I’d just run away from my last foster home.” Suddenly hundreds of miles and a dozen years away, she stares unseeingly at the delicate black lines on her skin.  “The tattoo artist looked so cool.  She had bright red hair and all her tattoos were red and black.”  She smiles at the memory.  “She knew I was underage, but she still did the tattoo for me.”

“Underage?” He sounds puzzled, and she reminds herself that there’s a lot he has to learn about this world.

“In this land, you have to be over eighteen before you can get inked.”  She brushes her fingertips over the heart and dagger (it’s Gold’s dagger, she realises with a dull jolt, why has she never noticed before?) on his forearm.   _Too occupied with other things while they were both naked, obviously._   Now that he’s taken to wearing David’s donated t-shirts and sweatpants, she can see his ink work much more clearly.  “I take it things were a lot more relaxed where you came from?”

He nods. “I’ve seen many a tattooed cabin boy in my time.”

She can’t help smiling at that. “Okay, that sounds a little creepy, but I get what you’re saying.”

“I’m curious, love.” Taking her left hand in his, he rubs his thumb over her tattoo. “Why did you pick this design?”

“It’s not a very interesting story,” she admits, and he gives her a sad smile, and she knows he’s thinking of the reason behind his own tattoo.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She swallows hard.  “Well, I had all these grand ideas, you know?  Phoenixes and dragons and butterflies and koi fish.”  She rolls her eyes, thinking of her sixteen year-old self.  “There was a flower cart a few doors down from the tattoo place.”  He threads his fingers through hers, but says nothing, and his touch is comforting.  “The guy had some bunches of buttercups, and I’d never seen them before, outside of a book, I mean.”  She smiles as she thinks of those bedraggled yellow flowers, the way they’d almost shivered in the breeze.  “It was cold and windy and those flowers were literally _just_ hanging in there and that was it.” 

He smiles at her words, then peers at her tattoo more closely. “Aren’t those particular flowers yellow, love?”

She makes a face. “I didn’t have enough money for anything but the outline.”  She looks down at her wrist, remembering the sting of the needle.  “I kept telling myself that one day I’d get it finished one day, but I don’t know.”   She shrugs, and his hand tightens around hers.  “I like it this way.”

Lifting their linked hands to his lips, he kisses her wrist. “It’s lovely.” 

A few sips later, she finds the courage to tell him about Graham.  To her relief, he doesn’t interrupt to ask questions. He simply holds her hand and lets her talk, and if he’s jealous of her grief and sorrow over another man, he doesn’t let her see it.  She explains the bootlaces she’d worn around her wrist (that she’d needed something, anything, to remember Graham by), and again, to her relief, he just listens.

It doesn’t take long to tell the story - she mourns afresh the fact that she had so little time with someone who had tried so hard to be her friend – and it’s only when she gets to the inevitable end that her voice falters.  “He told Regina he was leaving her, and an hour later, he was dead.”  Killian’s hand squeezes hers, and she clears her throat, knowing she’s a whisper away from crying. “He collapsed while we were at the station and he died in my arms and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do to save him.” 

Releasing her hand, he curls his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, letting her cry.  “Let it out, love.” His voice is soft in her ear, the stroke of his fingertips soothing on her skin.  “Don’t let it stay inside to fester and rot.”

“Doctor Whale said it was heart failure, and in a way he was right.”  She closes her eyes, remembering the pain on Graham’s face right before he’d fallen, choking out her words.  “Graham kept trying to tell me someone had taken his heart, but I didn’t believe him.”

“You grew up in a world without magic, Swan.” His hand cups the back of her head, tucking it against his chest. “Why _would_ you believe him?”

Taking a deep breath, she sniffs loudly, then says the words she’s never dared to say out loud before. “Regina crushed his heart.”

To her relief (and her dismay) he doesn’t try to convince her otherwise. “Aye, that seems likely.”

“I’ve never called her on it.”  God, _what_ was in that rum? She seems to be having trouble keeping anything back tonight.  “I should have said something when he died, I should have confronted her, but so much has happened since then, and Henry’s so much happier spending time with her now-”

“You don’t want to dredge up the past in case it upsets your boy.”  She nods, hurriedly pressing the back of her hand to the tip of her nose, and he sighs. “I know this will sound strange coming from me, love, but sometimes it’s better to let go of the past.”

“So if it _was_ Regina who killed him, she just gets away with it?”  Even to her own ears, her voice sounds flat. Defeated. 

“For now, perhaps.”   He strokes the nape of her neck, left bare by her hasty ponytail.  “But Henry won't always be a child who needs protecting from dark secrets, love.”  He presses a soft kiss to her temple, then pours another nip of rum into her glass, then his own.  He leans down and puts the bottle on the floor beside the bed, then picks up his glass, holding it aloft in a toast.  “To remembering the fallen.”

She clinks her glass against his in silence.  Her tears have stopped (although her eyes water a little at the burn of the rum) and, for the first time since Graham’s death, she feels as though a weight has been lifted off her chest. One day, she thinks, Henry will be ready to hear the truth about how his friend died. It’s a small justice, but it’s still justice of a kind.  “Sorry.” Sucking in a long breath, she gives Killian a shaky smile.  “I’m a fun date tonight, aren’t I?”

“Don’t apologise, love,” he replies, then tilts his head to look at her. “Date?”

She’s done it again.  God, how does she explain _this_?  “That’s when two people who, uh, like each other spend time together doing something special, like having dinner together or going out dancing.”

“How about sharing a drink?” His mouth curves in a slow smile.  “Or attending a royal ball, perhaps?”

Her eyes are still tender from her tears, but she can’t help grinning.  “Kind of like that, yeah.”

“So, by your reckoning, Swan, you and I have enjoyed a few dates already.”  Leaning closer, he kisses her temple again, going on before she can form a reply. “If you wish to repair your leather laces and don them once more, you needn’t think I’d object.”  His fingertips trace the ridge of her collarbone, his touch warm. “Loyalty is a prized trait, and one that is to be admired.”

Lifting her hand, she touches his tattoo, one fingernail following the path of Milah’s name, curious about the unknown woman who was so many things to the people in her life.  Gold’s wife. Neal’s mother. Killian’s love.  “You must have loved her very much.”

“That I did.”  His dark lashes hide his eyes as he studies where her hand rests on his arm.  “I had come to believe I would never love another.”  His gaze lifts to meet hers, and the emotion glittering in his eyes makes her heart rate pick up speed.  “And then you held a knife to my throat and tied me to a tree as ogre bait, and I was no longer the sole master of my heart.”

She stares at him, knowing that no matter how much time they spend together, she will probably never get used to the way he speaks of love.  “You could _not_ seriously have found that alluring,” she rebukes him sternly, but he merely gives her a soft, secret smile.

“You have _no_ idea how alluring you were, Swan, even when you were clapping me in irons.”  The hand on her shoulder dips lower beneath the neckline of her top.  “My only regret is that we wasted so much time finding our way to this happy arrangement.”

Goosebumps are rising in the wake of his touch, her nipples drawing up tight against the fabric of her shirt.  “Anything worth having is worth waiting for,” she quips in a voice that’s not quite steady, and his smile widens.

“Tell me something, love. Where would a man of this realm take a beautiful woman on a _date_?”

“Well, for a start, he could take her out to dinner.”  She purses her lips, trying to focus on something other than the fact that she really, _really_ wants him to move his hand lower. “Something that doesn’t involve fries or a burger.”

He looks thoughtful, as though he has no idea his touch is making her squirm. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate its rustic charms, but would I be correct in assuming the only venue on offer would be Granny’s?”

Tired of not touching him, she climbs into his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. “There are other places, but I have a better idea.”

His right hand slides up her thigh, his wrist brace at her waist. “I’m all ears, love.”

Leaning forward, she kisses the corner of his mouth, and feels the faint shudder that goes through him. “The rest of the town might be stuck behind the town line, but we’re not.”

Comprehension dawns quickly.  “And just where would you like to go, Swan?”

“Somewhere no one knows us.” She nudges his nose with hers, breathing him in, and the hand on her thigh begins a slow journey upwards.

“Consider it done.”  He brushes his lips against hers, his warm hand sliding underneath the hem of her top, gliding up her belly until he’s cupping one bare breast, making her bite back a gasp. _Finally._ “By the way, Swan,” he whispers, his lips warm as they tease hers, “you were definitely worth the wait.”

She kisses him, tasting rum and mint and the warmth of his tongue, lifting one hand into the air, feeling the magic flowing through her.  Candlelight dances into life around them, the light bulb overhead fading, and he smiles into her kiss.  “Enchantress.”

It starts off slow and sweet, a languid dance of taste and touch, then he puts his mouth to her ear and tells her to do exactly what he plans to do to her tonight. In the half-light, she feels her skin flame with something akin to embarrassment (God, how can something so filthy sound so poetic?) but she’s already touching him, her hands sliding over his belly and between his legs, her mouth finding his, swallowing his groan of pleasure. Their kisses become slick and hungry, almost dirty, and she finds herself whispering things back to him, her hands and mouth matching every word with an action that has him shuddering against her.

Their clothes in a pile on the floor, he lets her unbuckle his wrist brace and put it aside, and soon he’s bare to her eyes in more ways than one, and she knows then, in that moment, that she loves him.  She loves him more than she ever expected to love a man again, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

She hurriedly fishes a condom out of the drawer beside the bed, tearing it open with clumsy fingers.  He rolls onto his back, settling her on top of him, which is exactly where she wants to be, her hands delving between them, smiling at his soft groan as she slides the condom on.  She rises up over him, her hands pinning his (hand and wrist) hard into the pillow on either side of his head, then slowly sinks down onto him in a hot, slick slide that sends an immediate spasm of pleasure rippling through her.  _Not yet_ , she thinks desperately.  _Not yet._

He rises to meet her, again and again, and when she frees his hand and wrist, she feels them on her breasts, then between her thighs, seeking and stroking and finding and inflaming. He smells so good, like lemon soap and mint and warm skin and desire, and she wants to sink her teeth into his shoulder. The aching pressure builds, pushing her higher and higher every time she moves, her blood pounding in her ears. And through it all, she feels their resurrected past nipping at her heels, stalking her every touch, every kiss, sliding in and out of her thoughts like an unwanted guest.

When he’s almost there, almost as though he knows what’s happening in her head - _but God, how could he?_ \- he pulls her down to him, his lips pressed against her throat, and tells her in a rough whisper that he loves her, no matter how long he had to wait for her, and suddenly she sees all that embarrassment and thwarted longing and pretence for what it really is, nothing more than an illusion spun to protect herself from the coming storm. He kisses her, and she opens her body and her heart and lets the final shadow of their mistimed history shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, blowing away like dust as wave after wave of pleasure begins to thrum through her.

She digs her fingers into his shoulders, clutching him tightly as she moves against him, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. His hand is tight on her hip as he rocks himself into her in hard, short thrusts, his body arching beneath hers as he quickly follows her into a state of boneless, sweaty satiation.

When he finally speaks, it’s in an unsteady voice, sounding as though he can’t believe what they’ve just done. “Bloody hell, that was - "

“Really something,” she prompts helpfully as she flops down beside him and slides one arm around his waist, trying to catch her breath. “Or something else, I’m not sure.” He touches her face, then cups her jaw in his palm, bending his head to hers to press a lingering kiss to her mouth. He kisses her slowly and deeply, as though they’ve just come to bed, instead of being sprawled across it, unable to move. When it’s over, her heart is hammering anew and he’s gazing at her with something akin to quiet amazement.

“Perhaps it’s just as well this didn’t happen sooner,” he finally whispers, his lips quirking in a smile. “I may not have survived long enough to escort you to Neverland.”

She buries her answering smile against his damp shoulder, inhaling the spicy scent of his skin. “The infamous Captain Hook, bested by a woman.” He yawns softly, making her own mouth ache, then smiles at her. “I would have gone to my grave a happy man, love.”

She stretches languorously, suddenly feeling as though she could sleep for days, but not before she visits the bathroom.  When she returns a few moments later, he’s already half-asleep.  She slips into bed, moulding herself to his warm back. He murmurs something in a drowsy voice, his long legs tangling with hers beneath the bedclothes, and she smiles against his shoulder. Darting one hand out from beneath the covers, she flutters her fingertips in the direction of the candles, and the room is plunged into darkness.

Sleep eludes her, though, and she finds herself wondering exactly where they go from here, never a good train of thought to follow in the middle of the night.  She loves being here with him and she knows he's pleased that she’s stayed the night again, but this is not her home, and she can’t help wondering how long it will take before they both feel the need to reassess this arrangement. He can’t stay at Granny’s forever, and she doesn’t want to live out of an overnight bag.

Maybe they could –

No.

It’s too soon.

She screws her eyes shut tightly, but she can’t stop the thought from coming.  She could find a place of her own.  Henry’s always wanted to live near the water.  Something big enough for the two of them (when he’s not with Regina, she knows she has to keep sharing him), and for anyone else who might need a place to make them feel like they belong.

_God._ The fact she’s even _thinking_ about this should terrify her, but quite frankly, she’s too damned tired and happy to be terrified right now. 

Closing her eyes, she pushes the thought from her head and she lets herself drift towards sleep. The past is behind her, the future lies ahead, and both directions present their own problems. Right now, though, all she wants to do is fall asleep in this bed with this man.  Anything else can wait until morning.

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

He’s awoken by the sound of her portable telephone chirping loudly - half-asleep, he’s relieved to realise there isn’t an actual bird in the room - and by the time he’s shaken the fog from his head, she’s sitting up in bed and talking softly.   “Hey, David.”  She rubs her eyes as she listens intently, then he hears her sigh.  “Really?  Again?”   She glances at the large clock on the wall (it’s just after seven), then sighs again.  “Okay. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”

Pressing her thumb on the small screen, she drops her phone onto the small table beside the bed and flops back down beside him, her head on his shoulder, her arm flung over her eyes.  “Ugh.”

Their quiet morning together is obviously at an end.  Taking the opportunity to sift his fingers through the silken gold of her tousled hair, he’s careful to keep his disappointment from his voice. “Official duty calls, I take it?”

“Single car accident at the town line, no serious injuries,” she mutters, grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.  “Someone changing their mind about trying to leave town at the last minute, I guess.”  Blowing out a loud breath, she releases his hand and sits up again, giving him a delightful view of her naked back.  “Shit.”  She twists around to look at him, affording him an even more delightful for her lovely breasts.  “I’m supposed to meet Henry for breakfast downstairs in half an hour.”  Putting her hand on his thigh, she gives him a winsome smile.  “I don’t suppose you’d-”

The thought of saying _no_ doesn’t occur to him, and it’s not just because she’s as bare as the day she was born.  “I’d be delighted to entertain young Master Henry.”

“Thanks.” Leaning down, she bestows a warm kiss on his mouth, and he allows himself the simple pleasure of smoothing his hand over the curve of her shoulder, determinedly ignoring the enchating sway of her breasts.  “I’ll owe you one.”

Grinning, he gives her a look which makes it plain what he’s likely to request as reimbursement, if the twin spots of colour on her cheekbones are any indication.   “I promise not to commandeer another vessel until you’re back with us.”

Another brief, hard kiss, and she’s gone, picking up her clothes from the floor and strolling towards the water closet.  “Make sure you do, Captain.”

He stretches luxuriously as the door shuts behind her, feeling the pleasant ache in his bones that a night with Emma Swan always seems to bring, and tries not to overanalyse why the thought of spending time with her son brings a broad smile to his face.   He’s long stopped seeing the boy as an echo of his father, but he can’t deny that the combination of young Baelfire’s bravery and Emma’s spirited intuition makes for an entertaining dining (and sailing) companion.

Emma’s as good as her promise to her father, taking little more than ten minutes to ready herself.  She leaves him with a final remark about putting some clothes on, lest he traumatise the patrons at the diner, her bright green wink making his chest tighten with a longing for something far more enduring than simple lust.  Scrubbing his hands through his hair, he picks up his usual clothing from where he’d left them after his bath the night before, and studies them dispassionately.  Emma had suggested (admittedly, in the throes of passion when the fastenings on his trousers were vexing her) that he might consider purchasing some modern clothing.  Such a course of action would surely signal, as much as any words he’s thus far uttered, his intention to stay in this town. 

Deep in thought, he washes quickly and dresses, not wanting to keep young Henry waiting.  The clothing given to him by Emma’s father might be suitable for lounging in his bedchamber, but not for venturing into polite company.  Perhaps, he thinks as he buckles his belt, he might go on an exploratory venture later today, and see what the shopkeepers of Storybrooke have to offer.  He picks up his heavy coat, then glances at his reflection in the small mirror. He may not be in possession of any modern wear, but change can come in small increments, after all.  Feeling ridiculously as though he’s taking the first step into a new adventure, he leaves the coat on the end of the bed.

To his relief, Henry looks pleased to see him.  “Mom sent me a text telling me that she had to go on patrol.”  The lad pushes a menu across the table at him, his face alight with a hopeful grin.  “Are you sure she trusts us not to hijack a boat after our pancakes?”

“I suspect she trusts you far more than she trusts me, lad.”  He smiles at the boy.  “The cost of our breakfast will be assigned to my lodgings, so have at it.” 

Henry takes him at his word, reminding him that he’d forgotten how much a teenaged boy could eat.  He’s barely halfway through his eggs and toasted bread by the time the lad has demolished a pillow-sized pile of hotcakes drenched in sweet syrup, with several rashers of bacon on the side.  “You’d give Smee a run for his money, mate,” he teases, but the boy looks unfazed. 

“It’s the most important meal of the day.”

He watches the lad scrape his plate for a moment, then comes to a decision. “I once saw your father eat the better part of a whole roast sturgeon." 

Henry’s eyes light up, and Killian knows he was right to mention Baelfire.  “That’s a fish, right?”

“Indeed.”  Leaning across the table, he gives the boy a conspiratorial smile.  “And a rather large fish at that.”

Henry pushes his empty plate aside, and puts his elbows on the table.  “Before, when you tried to tell me about my dad-” He hesitates, and Killian waits, not wanting to rush the lad.  “I couldn’t remember him, so it didn’t really mean as much as maybe it might mean now?”

Killian knows a less than subtle hint when he hears one.  “Shall I tell you about the time he got his breeches caught on a nail up in the crow’s nest and had to climb down the mast without his dignity intact?”

“Definitely.” Henry’s grin seems to reach from ear to ear. “And anything else you’ve got, too.”

As Killian drains the last of his coffee, he glances around, seeing that the diner has become crowded. Perhaps they should do the polite thing and vacate their booth if they’ve finished their meals.  That he also feels the need for some fresh sea air is extra incentive, and the thought inspires his next question.  “Perhaps we could venture down to the waterfront?”

The lad sends Emma a message through his telephone, and his mother imparts the news that she and David are still at the station, dealing with paperwork.  The unfortunate driver was uninjured, and his vehicle had been towed to the garage for repairs.  She’s agreeable to his taking her son to watch the coming and goings of the boats, and says she’ll meet them there when she’s done.

Henry lopes along beside him, and he marvels at how much taller the boy is now compared to their first encounter.  He also can’t help noticing that the boy seems to have discarded that hand-held game device that had been his constant companion before his memories had returned.  “Now, then.  What would you like to know?”

“How exactly did you meet my dad?”

_It’s amazing how quickly a bright idea can backfire on you_ , Killian muses.  Wishing he’d thought to discuss with Emma exactly how much her son knew about his family history, he decides on the middle ground of vague but honest.  “My crew and I fished him out of the ocean after he’d been dropped by Pan’s shadow.”

The lad’s dark eyes widen. “No shit.”

He fixes the boy with as stern a stare as he can muster. “I’m not sure your mother would approve of such salty language, mate.”

Henry grins. “Sorry.”

They make their way to the docks, and as they walk, Killian fills in the gaps of the lad’s knowledge as best he can, as gently as he can.  So many of Baelfire’s younger days were filled with the stuff of nightmares, and he has no wish to impart the legacy of such dark thoughts to the man’s son.  He speaks of their time together about the Jolly (this affords the telling of many a hilarious tale, most of them at Bae’s expense, he’s afraid) and he can almost see the phantom becoming a real person in front of Henry’s eyes.  When they finally reach the waterfront, they take up a watchful position on a comfortable bench, their legs stretched out before them, and Killian knows the time has come for the inevitable questions.

“Did my dad know about you and my Mom?”   Henry looks at him with dark, serious eyes.  “I mean, you guys were friends, right?”

“Ah, well, your mother and I, that’s rather complex.” Killian finds himself rubbing the back of his neck, searching for the right words, deciding to err on the side of gallantry.  “And that particular tale is your mother’s to tell, lad, not mine.”  He gives Henry a gentle smile. “Just know that your father and I made our peace before he left this world.” His chest tightens, but it’s a relief to be able to share such a simple truth. “There was no anger between us.”

Nodding, Henry turns to watch at the bobbing boats at their moorings, his gaze narrowed against the sun.  “It’s nice here,” he says in a small, quiet voice.  “I wish we lived in a place where I could look out my window and see the ocean.”

“Regina’s mansion is very grand,” Killian tells him, careful to keep his tone casual. He’s never one to judge a man for longing for the sight and smell of the sea, but it appears the Cricket’s concerns may be rooted in reality, after all.  “You could do worse, mate.”

The boy shrugs.  “It’s just the two of us in that big house, and when she’s unhappy or upset, it feels even bigger.”  He turns to look at Killian, his expression very much like his mother’s, open yet guarded in the same heartbeat.  “Hey, maybe you can help me talk Emma into finding a place near the water.”

Killian’s heart seems to catch in his throat.  “I wouldn’t presume to coerce the lady when it came to something so important. Besides, it’s hardly any of my concern where your mother choses to live.”

“Oh, please.” The boy gives him a disdainful glance. “I’m fourteen, not four.  I know you guys are hanging out together.”  He shakes his head as he turns to watch the boats once more.  “Are you worried what people might say about a pirate dating a princess?”

There are very few times in his life that Killian Jones has found himself lost for words.  This would be one of them.  Indeed, it takes him a moment or two to find his voice.  “Like I said, lad, when it comes to your mother and myself, things aren’t exactly simple.”

Henry gives him a look that clearly says he’s not convinced, but drops the subject, and Killian breathes a silent sigh of relief.  His relief grows when he hears the familiar sound of Emma’s yellow vehicle approaching.  It seems he is greatly out of practice when it comes to dealing with the word games of youngsters with an agenda. 

“Hey, you two.”  Emma smiles at her son, then at him.  “Nice to see you’re still on dry land.”

Killian gives her a look of mock offense as she kisses the top of Henry’s head.  “I made that promise only yesterday, love. Did you really expect me to break it so soon?”

“Sorry, old habits.” She smiles as she pats his shoulder. The gesture is faintly awkward, and he realises she’s too conscious of her son’s presence to truly relax.  Emboldened by his conversation with Henry, he reaches for the hand on his shoulder, lifting it to his mouth for a kiss. 

“I’m a changed man, Swan.”

Her fingers tighten around his as she glances anxiously at Henry, but what she sees in her son’s face obviously reassures her.  He can feel her tension ease, and she goes as far as to give him a playful smile.  “So I’ve heard.”

Henry grins up at his mother. “So, can we talk to the harbour master about hiring a boat?”

_Apparently,_ Killian thinks with a private smile, _serious matters of the heart pale in comparison with the possibility of a trip at sea._

“Not today, kiddo.”  Emma pinches Henry’s chin gently.  “I think maybe we should have a talk about you going back to school before we work on the after-hours stuff.”

Her son pouts briefly, then leans back against the hard wooden bench with a sigh, as if recognising the inevitable and yielding to it.  “Mary Margaret wouldn’t be my teacher anymore, wouldn’t she?”

“Not at the moment, no.”  Emma darts a smiling glance at Killian.  “She’s pretty much got her hands full at the moment.”  

Killian grins, remembering how much of his parents’ attention young Prince Neal had commanded last night. “Literally, in fact.”

“Hey, I need to get a newspaper.”  With the usual vigour of youth, Henry has already moved onto another topic.  “I want to check the real estate section.”

Taking a seat on the other side of Henry, Emma raises one sculptured eyebrow at her son. “What for?”  Her tone holds more than a note of suspicion, and Killian holds his breath, knowing what’s coming. 

“Well, it’s kinda crowded at the loft now, and I would be thinking it might be nice if you and me had a place of our own.”  The lad says the words in a rush, as though he might better sneak them past his mother if he speaks quickly.  “Somewhere near the water.”

Emma’s bright green gaze meets Killian’s over the top of her son’s head and, for a brief moment, there is a wistfulness in her eyes that has his breath snagging in his chest.  Then she looks down at Henry, and the moment is lost.  “There’s a lot of stuff going on right now, kiddo, and that’s definitely something I’d need to discuss with Regina first.”  She threads her fingers through his hair. “We _will_ talk about it, though, I promise.”

Once again, her gaze darts up to meet Killian’s as she speaks, and he has the sudden sense that she’s not only addressing her son.  His pulse quickens - surely he’s imagining such a thing – and he gives her a tentative smile.

The smile she gives him in reply makes him feel as though the sun has just come out from behind the clouds.

“Come on, lad.”  He cuffs Henry gently on the shoulder.  “I think we should escort your mother to Granny’s for her breakfast.”

“Thank God,” she mutters, making a face. “David brought some muffins to work but they were bran and apricot.” 

“I take it that particular foodstuff isn’t palatable?”

“They’re the worst.”

As Henry walks ahead of them (he keeps peering at the different boats, as if assessing their appeal, and Killian can’t help but feel an odd sense of pride), Emma bumps her shoulder against his, her hand catching his for a brief second before releasing it.  “So, what did you guys talk about all morning?”

He allows himself the luxury of resting his hand on the delicate curve at the base of her spine for a few steps, then hooks his thumb into his belt, removing himself from temptation.  “His father, mostly.”  She nods, her expression solemn, and he adds, “And you, of course.”

She glances at him, her clear green eyes brimming with curiosity.  “Me?”

“He’s rather concerned with your living arrangements.”

“Aha.”  Again, the faintest hint of a blush touches her cheeks, and she glances down at her feet, a tiny smile curving her lips.  “He’s a very determined kid once he gets something in his head.”

He lets his shoulder brush against hers. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

She gives him a look that is part exasperation, part tenderness.  “Look who’s talking.”

They follow in her son’s wake to where her car is parked.  As he walks beside her, the reflective gleam of the sun bounces off the curve of his hook, reminding him that there are ways in which he may never fit in, but he still matches his step to hers, because there is no other place in this realm (or any other) that he wishes to be. 

 

~*~

 

 

They’ve just reached Granny’s when she sees it. 

Henry is trying to convince her that he needs a mid-morning snack (Killian has already mentioned the giant pile of food her son put away earlier) and she turns to him with a smile, a joke about hollow legs on the tip of her tongue, when the words die in her throat.  She grabs Killian’s arm, pulling him to a halt, because there is a reindeer standing in the middle of Main Street.

When she was much younger, depending on the foster home at the time, there was a television show she liked to watch.  It was set in Alaska and to the inhabitants of that small town, seeing a giant moose wandering up and down the main street was normal.

But this is Maine, not Alaska, and there should not be a freaking reindeer in the middle of Main Street.

_Oh, no._ This cannot be happening.

“Henry, did you want to go in and order me a grilled cheese sandwich and a hot chocolate?”  She puts herself between him and the reindeer, hoping to block his line of vision.  “I just need to check something out.”

He frowns, then nods.  “Sure.  Can I get something too?”

“Knock yourself out.”  Lazy parenting, she knows, but she wants him inside and safe until she knows exactly what’s going on.  “We’ll be in soon.”

She wants until he’s gone, then turns to Killian, who is looking at her with obvious confusion.  “What’s going on, love?”

She gestures towards the reindeer, which now seems to be strolling along Main Street as though it’s sightseeing. “Something look out of place to you?”

His eyes widen.  “Bloody hell.”

“Exactly,” she replies as she pulls out her phone to call David.  She’s pretty sure he never had to deal with _this_ kind of beast at the animal shelter, but she’ll feel better if he’s with them.  She leaves a message on his voicemail (that will no doubt have him wondering if she’s taken to drinking in the morning) then tucks the phone back into her pocket.  “Okay. Let’s do this.”

They approach the animal cautiously, but when they get within ten feet of it, they both come to a halt.  “It appears the beast isn’t travelling alone,” Killian murmurs in her ear, and Emma can only nod, because things just got way more complicated.

She takes a deep breath, then walks over to where the unfamiliar young couple are standing hand in hand, looking around them in the same what that Emma has seen over and over again from tourists in the middle of Times Square.

“Hi!”  They both jump, obviously startled, turning in unison to face her. Emma takes a few seconds to catalogue their appearance, and every single damned thing she sees makes her heart beat a little faster.  “You look lost.  Can we help?”

The woman is a pretty redhead with a heart-shaped face.  Just as Emma thinks that at least she’s not wearing plaits, the other woman opens her mouth and complicates everyone’s lives.  “Oh, I hope so.  We’re looking for my sister, and we got word that she might have somehow come to your little town.”

Beside her, Killian is a silent, solid presence, and Emma is very glad he’s there.  “I’m Emma Swan.  I’m the sheriff here.”

“Nice to meet you.”  The other woman’s dimples flash as she smiles.  “I’m Ana, and this is Kristoff,” she adds, gesturing towards the burly fair-haired man beside her. 

Emma stares at them. Well, _shit._

Before she can open her mouth to reply (or say a few choice curse words), she hears the pounding of teenaged sized feet, then Henry is suddenly beside her and beside _himself_ with triumphant glee.  “I _knew_ it!”

Right on cue, Leroy comes barrelling around the corner.  “Strangers!  Strangers in town!”  He skids to a stop at the sight of them all, his eyes widening at the large reindeer which is now sitting like a dog next to its master. The dwarf looks at Emma, disappointment at having his thunder stolen written all over his face.  “Just thought you should know.”

She looks at Killian, who merely grins.  “It _was_ getting a little quiet around here, love.”   He nods at their visitors, then tilts his head towards Granny’s front door.  “Perhaps our guests might like some refreshment.”

Emma stares at him, then at the couple who are looking at her with expectant, hopeful faces (even the freaking reindeer is looking at her as though it’s waiting for her to speak), and officially gives up on trying to have a normal day.  Sighing, she puts her hand on Henry’s shoulder (she has the feeling he’s itching to pat that reindeer) and gives their visitors a resigned smile.  She has no idea how they got to Storybrooke (how are they even in this _time_?), but she’s sure she’s about to hear all about it. “Come on, then. Let’s get you something to eat and drink, and you can tell us more about your sister.”   She looks at the large, hairy beast, which has now gotten to its feet, his snout resting on his male owner’s shoulder.  “Maybe Granny can find some carrots for your friend there.”

“They’re his favourite.” The guy’s eyes widen.  “How did you know?”

Henry smirks, as only a teenaged boy with the knowledge of two different worlds can smirk. “Just a lucky guess.”

Leroy leads their motley crew towards Granny’s, but Emma hangs back, desperately needing one last moment of peace before she plunges back into the craziness that is her life.  Killian, as he always does, notices her reluctance to join the others, and comes to her side, his hand catching her hand discreetly, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You alright there, Swan?”

“I just need a minute.” She squeezes back, taking comfort from the way his palm fits so perfectly against hers, the way his calm voice can soothe her jangled nerves with the most ordinary of words.  She takes a few deep breaths, then nods. “Okay. Let’s go see what the hell’s going on _now_.”

“As you wish, milady,” he tells her, his lips curving in a slow smile, and anticipation of their next adventure gleams in his eyes.

It lights the same spark inside her, damn him, and she takes a chance and seizes one of the good moments.  Standing in the main street of the town, she rises up on her toes and pressing a quick, firm kiss to his surprised mouth.  “I like you without the coat."

She turns on her heel and starts walking, but not before she hears his delighted chuckle and the words _saucy_ and _wench._ Grinning, knowing he’s following, she takes the steps to Granny’s front door two at a time, suddenly feeling as though she could fly. 

They’re both in the book now, and the future is hers to write.   

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 


End file.
